


Love Me Like You Do

by VampireInATrenchCoat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biphobia, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24102097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireInATrenchCoat/pseuds/VampireInATrenchCoat
Summary: Dean Winchester is a pretty normal teenager, with a pretty normal life. He’s got a normal family, normal friends, and he goes to a pretty normal school—well, except for the fact that the principal keeps walking around with a sock puppet, but he’s gotten used to that by now. He’s an average student, a doting older brother, and a loyal friend. He’s pretty good with cars, he can actually cookandsing, he drives around in a gorgeous black ‘67 Chevy Impala, and he dreams of becoming a famous actor one day, much to his father’s dismay.Oh, and he has two tiny little secrets—two pieces of himself that he does everything he can to keep under wraps, hidden away from the rest of the world. He’s never told anyone about them, and if everything goes his way, he never will.One: he’s not as straight as everyone thinks he is.And two: he’s in love with his best friend—hisvery obviously malebest friend.But, really, no one needs to know about any of that.Based on the movie “Love, Simon”.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I can explain. I was watching "Love, Simon" the other day, and the next thing I knew, I was writing a whole Destiel AU based on it, and I just couldn't stop. I already have the whole thing planned out, and about half of it written. It's a pretty short story, just around 100k words, which is kind of a miracle. XD
> 
> (If you don't know me, hello! Welcome! I'm Vamps, and I posted a 66k _chapter_ once. ;P)
> 
> This story was based on the movie "Love, Simon", although I did add my own little twists to it, changed a few things, threw in a little more drama. Hopefully you guys you'll enjoy my take on it. ;)
> 
> And before you ask, yes, I did consider calling this story "Love, Dean". That was actually the working title for this fic, but it never felt right to me, maybe because this story is not _exactly_ like "Love, Simon". Or maybe it was because that was kind of the obvious choice, and I don't really like that. Either way, I was never happy with that title, so I ended up changing it in the end. And also, I just really love naming my stories after songs. Have you guys noticed that? ;P
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. A lot of elements and storylines depicted in this story were borrowed from the movie "Love, Simon", which I do not own. The title of this story comes from the song _Love Me Like You Do_ by Ellie Goulding, which I also do not own.

Dean was 13 years old when he started to figure it out.

It started out slow, though. Every once in a while, a stray thought that he couldn’t quite understand would slip into his mind, completely unannounced and unwanted, and it would get him all confused and frustrated every single time. There was a pattern to those odd, inconvenient thoughts, of course, but for a long, long time, Dean tried really hard not to think about that, to pretend that he didn’t _see_ the pattern, to just ignore all of it.

But of course, no matter how much he wanted to just send those thoughts away, to simply push them to the back of his mind, to shove them into a dark, forgotten corner deep in his subconscious, where he could permanently lock them away and then throw away the key, it just wasn’t that easy. No matter how much he tried to fight them, they just wouldn't _stop_.

At some point, he’d caught himself wondering if there might actually be something wrong with him. Sure, he understood it when his friends talked about girls, he understood their comments and why exactly they found each girl they chose as a conversation topic attractive, calling her _’hot’_ or _‘a babe’_ —most of the time, he even agreed with them. He understood that was _normal,_ expected of all the boys his age, and it really wasn’t hard to play along with them. He didn’t need to _pretend,_ because he did find those girls attractive and hot. He didn’t need to _lie_ about that.

But other times, he would catch himself thinking about _boys_ instead, would find his eyes settling on a guy for a little too long, imagining things that he really shouldn’t be thinking about, mind wandering into places where it really shouldn’t go. And he knew that he couldn’t exactly _share_ any of that with his friends. Luckily, he'd caught on pretty fast, and it didn't take him too long to figure out that those thoughts weren’t exactly normal—or, well, at least that’s what he’d been told, anyway. What his _Dad_ had told him, over and over again.

Not _directly_ , of course, because his Dad _obviously_ didn't know about all the unwanted thoughts that kept swirling around inside Dean's head. No, John Winchester just had a habit of making jokes and snide comments about... well, anyone he didn't deem to be _normal_. Whenever a queer character would show up on screen while they were watching a movie or a TV show, he'd start throwing around stuff like:

"Of course that guy's gay! Just look at him! He's such a pansy! All... straightened out and polished, with that pink shirt and that freaking _scarf_. No self-respecting guy walks around looking like _that."_

"I'm not saying a guy can't cry or be sentimental. I'm just saying it's not very manly. You just gotta suck it up and be a man, or else people might start getting the wrong idea."

"I'm telling you, there are only two reasons a guy would be friends with a girl that pretty—he's either into her, or he's gay. There's no in-between."

"When a boy around that age goes too long without a girlfriend, it's time to start getting worried. His dad should just sit down with him and have a good, nice talk about how things really are out there in the real world. That ought to set that boy straight—literally."

Those were just some of the highlights, but you probably got the gist of it.

Dean had grown up hearing those kinds of comments, so maybe it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that for _years_ , Dean chose to simply ignore the fact that he _may_ be different. He did his best to not _think_ about any of it, to pretend that all those thoughts, all those _things_ he felt just… weren’t there, because it was easier to pretend that he _was_ the person everyone around him thought he was.

He couldn’t keep that up for _too_ long, though. Simply ignoring the problem did work for a little while, but it got increasingly difficult as the years passed, and eventually, Dean had no other choice but to think about it. At some point, he had to face the fact that he _wasn’t_ as straight as he’d originally thought, or as everyone around him seemed to believe he was.

_Accepting_ that fact wasn’t as easy as it sounded, though. He actually struggled with it for quite a while—to be perfectly honest, he’d had a pretty weird phase where he was convinced that _everyone_ around him somehow knew his secret, knew that he wasn’t exactly who he said he was—but he’d grown out of that eventually. At some point, he’d come to realize that he was just being paranoid, that there was no way anyone could just _know_ something like that, and that if he played his cards right, if he was careful enough and didn’t make any mistakes, then no one would ever need to know about it, because it wasn’t like he was _gay._

No, Dean Winchester was bi, and that meant that as long as he settled down with a girl, no one would ever need to know the truth. As long as he strayed clear of all the boys that caused all those unwanted feelings to bubble up inside of him, then he should be fine.

There was only _one_ problem with that plan.

***~*~*~*~***

“Okay, but listen to this, though,” a familiar, gravelly voice emanated from the small speakers in Dean’s phone. _“Someone_ in our school thinks your bow legs make you look like a sexy cowboy right out of an old western movie. Literally. They _literally_ wrote that on Lawrence High Secrets. Word by word. And that’s not all, either. They wrote an entire list of comparisons, one more creative than the other. They might as well have written you a poem, really.”

Dean snorted, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. He didn’t even bother to glance down at his phone and see the pair of incredibly blue eyes that were surely watching him, gauging his reaction to those words. “Why the fuck are people so obsessed with my freaking bow legs?”

A small, amused huff sounded from the small speakers. “You really need me to explain it to you? _Again?”_

Dean rolled his eyes— _again._ “No, thank you, you freaking weirdo.” He finished typing the last sentence he needed to write in the document he’d been working on since last night, and then sent it to the printer. He really hated history assignments, but he couldn’t flunk the class if he wanted to graduate at the end of this school year.

He really preferred math, though. Or calculus. Or physics. Or even chemistry. Anything with numbers or algebra, really.

The sound of his printer working filled the air during the next few seconds while the machine turned the digital version of his paper into a physical copy that he could hand in later today.

“You done with the history thing?” that same low, gravelly voice asked.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, pressing a few more buttons on his computer, before lowering the screen to put it to sleep for a few hours. “Just finished it. I’m ready to go.”

“Well, then hurry up and get your butt in that huge black car of yours. You’re what, two minutes late already?”

Dean huffed, finally picking up his phone so he could glare at the image of his best friend, which was currently being displayed on the small screen. As soon as his eyes fell upon it, though, he was met with a big, teasing smile and playful blue eyes, and his annoyance faded away in an instant, like a button had been pressed.

He smiled—a teasing, lopsided smile that matched the one currently being directed at him. “You keep talking like that, and I might just forget to stop my huge black car in front of your house to pick you up this morning.”

Cas laughed, loud and clear, his blue eyes twinkling beautifully, shining with obvious amusement. “Oh, you wouldn’t dare, Winchester.”

The screen of his phone went black after that, which meant Cas had ended the video call. That lopsided, goofy smile still lingered on Dean’s lips as he gathered up all his things, packing up his school bag with everything he might need today, including his history assignment. And once that was done, he threw his bag over his shoulder, grabbed his car keys and finally left his room.

He made his way down the stairs quickly, taking two steps at a time, then sauntered over to the kitchen. He could hear voices coming from that direction, and when he walked into the small, overly bright room, Dean found his family sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and having what appeared to be a pretty animated discussion— _way_ too animated, considering how early it was.

The strong light from the early morning sun poured in freely through the windows, and Dean squinted his eyes a little at the offending brightness.

Damn, he hated mornings.

“I’m telling you—I saw it just last night on TV!” his father argued, gesturing wildly with his hands. “It was like, an actual documentary! A real one! Beer’s actually _good_ for you. It helps with circulation and lowers your cholesterol or something. And there’s a lot more to it, too, you just, you gotta see the documentary to really understand it. But it was all there!”

Sam rolled his eyes around the piece of toast he was currently nibbling on, shaking his head in obvious disapproval of what his father was saying, though there was a tiny hint of amusement in his hazel eyes.

For a brief moment, it looked like Mary was about to say something. She turned a bit in her seat so she could look at John, her lips parted as a retort surely dangled from the tip of her tongue, but then she caught sight of Dean walking into the kitchen, and she seemed to change her mind about it.

“Oh, Dean, honey! I was already getting worried. You’re running a little late today.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean replied, rounding the kitchen table with a few quick, wide steps. He plucked a bagel from it, because he could eat it while he walked out of the house and up to his car, and, well, that was really all he had time for right now. “I gotta go. Don’t wanna be even later. Everyone’s already waiting for me.”

Bones, their eight-months-old golden retriever, raised his head to look at Dean as the boy passed him, but the puppy turned his focus back to the table currently filled with breakfast food quickly enough, letting his big brown eyes dart back and forth between Sam and John, probably trying to figure out which one of the two was more prone to sneak him some food when Mary wasn’t looking this morning.

“Honey, you can’t go to school without breakfast,” Mary argued.

“I’ll be fine, Mom!” Dean called over his shoulder as he quickly ducked his way out of the kitchen.

“You keep skipping meals like that, and Sam really will end up taller than you!” John bellowed after him.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, like _that_ will happen!” He grabbed a jacket from the coat closet in the entrance hall, then turned his head around so he could call out a loud, “Bye, guys!” into the house.

“Bye, Dean!” Sam’s voice echoed from the kitchen, just as Dean slipped out the front door.

He devoured his bagel in just two bites, inhaling the entire thing as quickly as he could, barely even chewing it as he crossed the front lawn and hurriedly made his way over to his car, and once he was finally sitting behind the wheel of the Impala, the treat was already gone from this world, slowly making its way down his esophagus and toward his stomach. He rubbed his hands on his jeans, getting rid of all the bagel crumbs he found there, then shoved his key in the ignition and started up the car. He carefully backed out of the driveway, then turned the Impala in the right direction and let her slowly glide down the street toward Benny’s place.

Dean and his friends had a little daily routine that they followed almost religiously. They'd been doing the exact same thing nearly every single weekday for the past eight months, ever since Dean had gotten his license and had been allowed to drive a car without adult supervision—which not-so-coincidentally had been around the same time his Dad had decided to get himself a new car and had given Dean the Impala.

Now, Dean _wasn’t_ the only one of his friends who had a car, but he loved his Baby so much that he definitely wasn’t willing to just ditch her so he could drive to school with someone else, and _that_ meant that he’d eventually become their group’s designated driver. Every morning before school, Dean would leave his house and head straight to Benny’s, then to Jo’s. Next, they would stop at this nice little coffee place only a few blocks away and buy everyone some caffeine to help them get through the day, and then finally, they would head on to Cas’ house.

Today, of course, was no different from that, and soon enough Dean found himself carefully guiding the Impala onto the Lafitte driveway, only to watch as a smiling Benny quickly walked up to the car, pulling the left back door open and slipping inside.

“You’re late, brother,” Benny commented as he settled in the backseat, placing his backpack on his lap. “Spent too long looking at yourself in the mirror again?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Very funny,” he retorted, glaring at his friend in the rearview mirror, but he shrugged the comment off quickly enough. He turned a bit in his seat, draping his arm over the leather backrest as he slowly backed out of Benny’s driveway, carefully slipping across the street and onto the Singer driveway. Why Benny and Jo couldn’t just wait for him on the _same_ side of the street, Dean would never understand, but the one time he’d brought it up, Jo threatened to give him a black eye.

Jo slipped into the front passenger seat, shutting the door carefully once she was inside. She knew from experience _not_ to slam Baby’s doors. “Yo. You’re late.”

Dean snorted. “Is that _all_ you guys have to say to me today?” he asked, guiding the Impala back out onto the street and making a right turn at the end of the block. “Good morning to you too. How was you guys’ weekend? Good? Yeah, mine too. Thanks for asking.”

Benny snorted. “Someone’s extra grumpy this morning.”

“Or hungry,” Jo guessed. “Let me guess—you didn’t have breakfast because you’re late.”

“I’m _not_ grumpy.”

“But you didn’t eat breakfast,” Jo insisted.

Dean huffed. “No.”

Jo turned around in her seat, giving Benny a knowing look. “See? Hungry.”

Dean simply rolled his eyes, not even bothering to grace Jo with an answer.

Soon enough, they found themselves waiting for their coffee order, and then they were off to Cas’ house, their last stop before they finally headed on to Lawrence High.

Cas was standing on his front porch when Dean pulled up to his house, and he hurried to make his way over to the Impala as soon as he spotted the car, gripping the strap of his backpack with one hand. The morning sun shone down on him at just the right angle as he crossed his front lawn, lighting up all his features, allowing Dean to see the truly unholy blue of his eyes all the way from the car.

Fuck, he was beautiful.

Dean swallowed drily as that thought slipped into his mind, shifting a bit in his seat. Damn it. He really needed to figure out how to get a hold of his thoughts—especially when he was around his friends. He really couldn’t have anyone figuring out the truth. He just couldn’t take that risk.

Cas sauntered over to the car with a smile on his face, pulling the right back door open and slipping inside, then shutting the door carefully once he was seated.

“I need caffeine,” he announced as soon as the car started moving.

“Good morning to you too,” Dean chuckled, glancing back at Cas in the rearview mirror. Those deep azure eyes met his for just a second before Dean forced himself to tear his gaze away, focusing it back on the road.

“I already talked to you this morning,” Cas pointed out, though his tone was light, joking, and Dean could hear a smile in his voice, “But good morning, Dean.” He turned to Jo, raising his right arm and making a grabby hand at her. “Coffee.”

Jo snorted, but passed Cas his latte.

The rest of the drive went by relatively fast, just like it always did—with loud, animated chatter filling the air inside the car almost constantly, jokes and teasing comments being thrown around between them, plus some gossip sprinkled here and there, courtesy of Jo.

Today’s choice of gossip, however, left something to be desired.

“Did you guys see Dean’s secret admirer’s latest post on Lawrence High Secrets?” Jo asked, swiveling around in her seat so she could look at Benny and Cas in the back.

Benny snorted. “Oh, the one about his bow legs? I found it poetic.”

“I found the part where they compared him to a ‘plaid-clad Adonis with artistically sculpted, perfectly angled legs’ exceptionally inspiring,” Cas commented. “They even compared him to a harp at one point, didn’t they?”

“Legs curved like an angel’s harp,” Benny recited, clearly quoting that damn fucking post, “The melody of which I would love to hear.”

Cas let out a big cackle, throwing his head back as he laughed.

Fucking hell.

“Oh, no,” Jo piped up, shaking her head. “The part about him being a 'sexy cowboy sent to this continent from a faraway land so he could bewitch all the unsuspecting, helpless ladies that glanced upon his otherworldly beauty' was definitely the best part. No question.”

Dean wanted to die. He really, _really_ wanted to die.

And he really hated that fucking blog.

“You guys are the fucking worst,” he grumbled, tightening his hands around the steering wheel.

The only response he got from his friends was yet another loud, rambunctious round of laughter.

Dean rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help but glance up at the rearview mirror again so he could take a peek at Cas, and his stomach did a freaking backflip when he found those sparkling blue eyes fixated on him, lively and bright with amusement. When he realized Dean was looking at him, Cas’ mouth split into a wide, teasing grin, before the bastard freaking _winked_ , just to make it all worse.

Dean tore his eyes away quickly, focusing them back on the road and silently praying that no one would notice the blush that was very quickly spreading on his face, coloring his cheeks in a bright, unmistakable shade of red.

And the worst part of it was—to Cas, that wink hadn’t meant a damn thing. To him, that was just a friend teasing another friend, with no secret meaning behind it. Cas would never think of Dean as something more than a friend—he’d made that perfectly clear over the past couple years, and fuck if that didn’t hurt like a damn bitch. He and Cas would _never_ be more than friends, and Dean would just need to get used to that. He needed to get over it, because he and Cas would never happen, and that was that. There was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

But that didn't mean it didn't hurt, and Dean’s heart grew heavier inside his chest at those thoughts, a bitter taste making itself known in his mouth.

So, yeah, that was his secret, the _one_ little obstacle in the way that _could_ potentially throw all the hard work Dean had put into building up his reputation over the years and convincing everyone around him that he was as straight as a freaking arrow right out the freaking window, the only thing that could send his perfect little plan spiraling down the drain.

Dean Winchester was bi, and he was in love with his best friend.

His _very obviously male_ best friend.

And wasn't that just fan-freaking-tastic.

***~*~*~*~***

“Oh, hi, Dean! I didn’t see you there!”

_Oh, great. Here we go again._

Dean did his best not to roll his eyes, but he failed to hold back the small, annoyed sigh that found its way out of his mouth as he turned away from his locker so he could focus his eyes on the redhead currently standing right next to him.

“You’re the one who walked up to me,” he pointed out. “I was literally just standing here.”

Anna Milton just blinked at him for a moment, looking like she hadn’t been expecting that response. She opened her mouth and closed it a few times, her bright green eyes a little wider than normal, until she finally seemed to snap out of it, shaking her head minutely.

“Yeah, right,” she agreed, giving an awkward little laugh. She lifted a hand, tucking a strand of her flaming red hair behind her ear. “So, anyway, you know how we have calculus together?”

Dean really didn’t like where this was going, but he still nodded—albeit slowly, hesitantly. “Yeah?”

Anna flashed him a small smile. It was probably supposed to look sly and flirty, but it didn’t come out right. Honestly, she looked a little constipated. “Well, I was having some trouble studying this weekend, and I heard you’re doing pretty good in that class, so… I was thinking that maybe you could come over to my house this afternoon, after school. So we could, you know… study together.” She gave him another small smile, a clear message shining in her eyes.

Well, wasn’t that… bold of her.

So bold, in fact, that at first, Dean really wasn’t sure how to respond, and all he found himself able to do was simply stare at her dumbly for a moment.

And then his mind finally came back online.

“Oh, uh… that won't work.”

Anna’s face fell a little at that.

“I’m sorry,” he hurried to say as soon as he saw it. “I just… I’ve got theater practice today, so… yeah. Not a good day for me.”

“Oh,” was all Anna let out at first, her disappointment written all over her face.

But then she cleared her throat, schooling her features back into a friendly, cheerful expression, a spark of hope obvious in her eyes. “Well, it doesn’t need to be _today._ What days are you free this week?”

Damn it. This was one a little persistent. Most girls usually gave up a little quicker than this, after his _first_ lame excuse to not hang out with her, but clearly that wouldn’t be happening with this one.

Awesome.

Frankly, Dean didn’t understand why the hell they still insisted. Dean hadn’t gone on a date in over a freaking _year,_ but they just didn’t seem to take the hint. There was always some girl trying to get his attention, inviting him over to their house to ‘study’, trying to get him to take her to the dance, or asking to be paired up with him in class. This one time, a girl had actually cornered him in the fucking men’s room, because that’s just a thing people do, apparently—well, _crazy_ people, anyway. It was a bit of a nightmare, really. Sure, at one point, his old, younger self would have basked in that, would have loved all the freaking attention, but he just… he just wasn’t that person anymore. He hadn’t been that person for a while now.

Now that the one person whose attention he craved, the _one_ person he wanted to notice him only saw him as a freaking friend, well, Dean didn’t think a bunch of girls batting their eyes at him and trying to make him agree to go on a date with them was so great anymore. Honestly, at this point, it was just really freaking annoying.

“I’m not sure right now,” Dean lied, “But I can get back to you on that.”

A bright smile formed on Anna’s lips, though it seemed far too wide. It didn’t look forced, just… a little creepy, to be honest. She was either completely oblivious to the fact that Dean was trying to (very gently) turn her down, or she was just choosing to ignore it. Dean really couldn’t tell for sure.

“Okay!” she replied, still smiling. “That’d be great, really. Like, so, _so_ great.”

Oh, _wow._

“I’ll text you?” Dean asked, sounding unsure even to his own ears.

“Yes!” she answered, a little too loudly. She sounded _way_ too excited about a freaking text. “Yes, that’s great! I’ll be waiting.”

“Oh-kay,” Dean replied, eyes a little wider. He gestured at his locker. “If you don’t mind, though, I was kind of in the middle of something.”

Anna’s eyes widened a little bit. She seemed surprised, for some freaking reason. “Oh, of course! I’ll just… leave you to it, then.” She turned on her heels and _finally_ started to walk away, though not without throwing a way-too-loud, “Don’t forget to text me!” over her shoulder.

Dean huffed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. _Yeah, right, as if he was actually going to freaking text her._

Thankfully, she didn’t realize that Dean didn’t actually have her phone number. At least now he had a half-decent excuse _not_ to text her.

Once Anna was finally gone, Dean turned back to his locker, shoving a few things inside and trying to figure out which books and notebooks he needed to grab for his next classes.

Unfortunately, though, he wasn’t alone for long.

“Dean-o! My man! My buddy! How you doing in this fine mid-September morning?”

Dean rolled his eyes, turning away from his locker _again,_ only to find himself face to face with none other than Gabriel Speight.

Great.

“I’m not, nor have I ever been, your _man_ , Gabriel. And I’d appreciate it if you never, _ever_ called me that again.”

Gabriel raised both of his hands in front of his body in what Dean assumed was a surrendering, peace-offering gesture. “I apologize.”

Dean simply rolled his eyes and turned back to his locker.

No one at this school really liked Gabriel, so the guy was a bit of a loner—and a big fucking weirdo, too. He was a little _too_ into magic, and he had the habit of pulling pranks on anyone who gave him even the slightest freaking chance, anyone who let him get too close, so people normally avoided him altogether, just to be safe. No one wanted to be his next victim. His pranks had a tendency of getting a bit out of control.

There was one poor freshman who, up to this day, still thought he’d been abducted by slow-dancing aliens.

And in addition to all that, as if the whole magic and pranking thing wasn’t already enough, Gabriel _also_ had the annoying habit of trying to act like he was the coolest, most popular guy in the whole freaking school, which was truly laughable—and a little sad, too. Dean would feel bad for the guy, he really would, if he wasn’t _so freaking annoying._

“So,” Gabriel started, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the lockers right beside Dean’s.

Dean sighed, grabbing a couple books from inside his locker and shoving them into his bag. He eyed a notebook for a brief moment, pondering, then grabbed it too. “What the hell do you want, Gabriel?”

“Now, there’s no need to be rude.” A sly, teasing grin bled onto his lips. “I just wanted to ask you one tiny, innocent little question. Just one. That’s it.”

Dean made a show of rolling his eyes again and slamming his locker shut just a tad bit louder than necessary, before he finally turned to face the guy. He purposefully stared down at him, taking advantage of the fact that Gabriel was over a foot shorter than him. “This gonna take long?”

Gabriel let out a tiny scoff, waving his hand dismissively through the air. “Oh, no, not at all.” He straightened up a little, leaning away from the lockers and squaring his shoulders, as if trying to make himself seem taller—which really didn’t do much for him.

Dean had to hold himself back from rolling his eyes again.

“So, you know Jo, right?”

Dean raised an unimpressed eyebrow at that. “Yeah?”

Gabriel wiggled his own eyebrows a little, a hint of that weird smile returning to his lips, shaping his mouth into an unsettling grin. “Any chance you could help out a buddy with her?”

At first, Gabriel’s words didn’t really register in his mind, the meaning behind them not entirely clear, and all Dean found himself able to do for a moment was… well, just blink at the guy, a confused frown forming in his brows.

Eventually, he managed to let out a startled, “What?”

Gabriel let out what appeared to be a frustrated sigh, before he rephrased, “Is there a chance—just a tiny, _tiny_ sliver of a chance that you could maybe, just _maybe,_ get me a date with her?”

And _those_ words were finally enough to snap Dean out of it.

“You wanna go on a date with _Jo?”_ Dean asked, and he really didn’t manage to disguise his disbelief all that well. Not that he was really _trying_ to, anyway. “With Jo _Harvelle?_ That Jo?”

Much to Dean’s surprise, Gabriel actually nodded, not a single hint of doubt or uncertainty visible in his eyes. “Yeah!”

_“Why?”_

Gabriel gave Dean a weird look. “Dude, you hang out with her literally every day. Have you even bothered to _look_ at her? She’s hot as hell! Like, come on!”

Dean blinked at him again, shaking his head. He really wished he hadn’t heard that. “Okay, first, don’t _‘dude’_ me. Second, Jo’s like a sister to me. Seriously. Our families literally spend Christmas together, so, you know, _ew.”_

Gabriel shrugged. “Well, then I’m glad I don’t have to go up against you, because, ya know,” He gestured at Dean with his hands, “Unfortunately, I don’t look like a Greek god.”

Yeah. Okay. Dean was officially done with this conversation.

With an annoyed huff, Dean rolled his eyes, spinning on his heels. “Yeah, okay. That’s enough from you.”

He tried to walk away, but Gabriel cut him off, catching up quickly and stepping in front of Dean before he could get too far, forcing him to stop walking.

“Wait! You didn’t answer me!”

Dean sighed. “About _what?”_

Gabriel’s eyes widened, growing urgent and a little exasperated, like he really couldn’t believe Dean had seriously just asked him that. “Are you gonna help me or not?”

Dean gave Gabriel a pointed look. “No.”

_“Why?”_ Gabriel pretty much whined, sounding an awful lot like a child throwing a tantrum.

Dean let out a big, frustrated breath. “You _really_ want to go on a date with Jo?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, giving the shorter boy _another_ pointed look.

Gabriel nodded— _very_ enthusiastically, as a matter of fact. Dean couldn't help but wonder how the guy didn’t crack his freaking spine while doing it.

“Then you try to get one yourself,” Dean added, and Gabriel’s face fell instantly, “Because I’m not helping you with that.”

Dean pushed past Gabriel before the shorter boy could respond, intending to head on to his next class.

Gabriel didn’t go after him this time. Dean was very glad about that.

As he walked down a few crowded, packed hallways, heading to the east side of the building where his next class would be taking place in just a few minutes, Dean felt his phone vibrating in his pants pocket—twice. He glanced around, making sure that Principal Garth wasn’t around with his freaking sock puppet, telling the students to get to class with his megaphone and confiscating people’s phones for texting in the hallways, before he pulled his phone out and glanced down at the screen, finding that he had two new text messages from his father—which was weird enough on its own.

**Dad [9:47AM] – hey Dean can you stop by the shop today after school?**

**Dad [9:48AM] – I need to talk to you about something**

Dean frowned down at the texts—not because John wanted him to go over to the garage, because that actually happened pretty often. At one point, John had taken every single opportunity he saw to invite Dean over to the garage so he could teach his son about cars, in the hopes that maybe someday, Dean would actually wish to take over the family business.

But, well, Dean really wasn’t interested.

Don’t get him wrong, though—he _did_ love working on cars, especially on his beloved Baby, and he was pretty damn good at it, too, but he didn’t want to make a _living_ out of that. He really couldn’t picture himself just owning a garage and that would be it. There were just some things that he liked doing a lot more than fixing up engines, changing oil filters and unbending fenders.

John _did_ seem to have understood that at some point, because he’d stopped trying so often, especially when they got to a point where there really wasn’t much more that he could actually _teach_ Dean. But every once in a while, he still gave it another try, just another little nudge in what the man apparently thought was the ‘right direction’.

So, yeah, it wasn’t exactly _odd_ for his father to ask him to go over to the garage. What _was_ odd was the fact that he’d _texted_ Dean about it, in the middle of the morning, completely out of nowhere—and he’d sounded shady as fuck while doing it, too. Normally, he'd just say that he wanted them to work on some cars together, or that he had something new that he wanted to teach Dean—but that hadn't happened today.

No, today, John had simply said that he wanted to _talk_ to Dean about something, providing no details whatsoever—not even a freaking _clue._

And that was… concerning, to say the least, mostly because Dean really had no freaking idea what this could possibly be about.

But, well, dwelling on it wouldn’t actually get him anywhere. Even if he texted back to ask his Dad what he wanted to talk about, he had a feeling John probably wouldn’t bother to answer, so he didn’t even try.

Instead, Dean simply typed in a quick reply and pressed **Send** , just as the bell signaling the start of his next class rang through the air.

**Sent [9:50AM] – yeah, sure. I’ll be there**

***~*~*~*~***

“Hey, Aaron! You find yourself a boyfriend yet?”

Dean looked up at the sound of a familiar, mocking voice booming over the loud, animated chatter that currently filled the air of the school cafeteria, only to find himself watching a sad, yet very common scene taking place only a few tables away.

Aaron Bass had his head down and his hands clutching his lunch tray a bit too tightly, his knuckles white with what Dean assumed was repressed anger as the boy rushed across the big, crowded room.

“No? Well, then maybe you should try taking care of that ugly face of yours!” Brady added from his seat at one of the lunch tables.

“You ever try wearing some makeup?” Gordon piped up from beside him. “That’s what gay people do, right? Do you need to borrow my mother’s high heels? Because I could hook you up!”

Aaron didn’t respond—in fact, he didn’t even raise his head to look at the two bullies currently pestering him. Instead, he simply marched on without pause, crossing the room in a few big, quick strides until he finally reached the table where his friends were having lunch and sat down with them.

“Damn,” Benny shook his head, “Those dudes are some real fuckin’ jerks.”

His friend's voice snapped Dean back to reality, and he turned his head quickly, focusing his eyes back on his small group of friends, only to find that all of them seemed to have been paying attention to that scene as well. Benny and Jo tore their eyes away from it just when Dean did, but Cas remained on staring at Aaron, a weird, faraway look in his eyes.

“Tell me about it,” Jo grumbled from across the table, taking a big bite of her turkey sandwich. “I mean, what’s so hard about leaving the poor guy alone? So what if he’s gay? What’s the big fucking deal?”

“Not just him,” Benny reminded her, dipping a rubbery French fry in ketchup and biting off half of it. “That girl, too—Charlie Bradbury. I don’t know what’s worse—the incoherent, prejudiced insults that they throw at Aaron, or the _disgusting_ comments they keep making about how _hot_ lesbians are whenever Charlie is within earshot.”

Yuck.

Dean lowered his eyes, grabbing one of his own fries and shoving it in his mouth, chewing slowly, just so he wouldn’t actually have to _say_ anything to that.

This was precisely one of the reasons why the single thought of _anyone_ ever figuring out his secret was already enough to throw Dean into a panic, to make his head spin, to have his heart beat faster inside his chest and the air feel far too thin in his lungs. He couldn’t go through something like that—having the entire school stare at you like you were some kind of circus freak, being the butt of the joke to assholes like Brady and Gordon on a daily basis. He couldn't deal with that. He _wouldn’t._

“That fry do somethin’ to personally offend ya, chief?”

Dean’s head snapped up, and he found all his friends staring at him, an obvious question in their eyes—Cas’ included. Apparently, Dean had picked up another fry from his tray at some point, but he didn’t eat it—no, he’d just been glaring at it for, well, some time, he guessed. He’d been so lost in his own head, he didn’t even realize it until Benny pointed it out.

Damn it. He really needed to be more careful.

Dean cleared his throat, shaking his head. “No, I… I kinda went somewhere else there for a second. Sorry.”

Benny snorted. “That was a little more than a second, brother.”

Dean didn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he simply shoved the fry in his mouth and glanced back down, hoping his friends would just leave it at that and drop the subject.

But of course, that didn’t happen.

A hand came to rest on Dean’s arm, wrapping around his bicep and squeezing it lightly, gently. “Dean, are you okay?” Cas whispered, and when Dean turned his head to look at him, he found two big, worried blue eyes staring right at him.

Fucking hell, this wasn’t _fair._ How the _fuck_ was his mind supposed to freaking _function_ with Cas looking at him like _that,_ with those _ridiculously_ beautiful eyes of his?

“Yeah,” Dean somehow managed to croak out, nodding his head a bit too tightly, but that really was the best he could do right now. His mind was racing, desperate to change the topic of this conversation, to get his friends’ focus _off_ of him.

So maybe it really shouldn't be much of a surprise that when the tense silence that followed stretched on for a bit _too_ long, Dean ended up blurting out the first thing that crossed his mind.

“So, something pretty weird happened today,” he announced, tearing his eyes away from Cas and looking over at where Benny and Jo were sitting across from them at the table.

He didn’t see Cas’ reaction to his words, but he could still feel Cas’ curious, inquiring gaze fixed on the side of his face.

He did see Benny’s and Jo’s reactions, though, and they were pretty similar—both of them seemed a little confused by the sudden subject change, but much to Dean’s relief, they didn’t question him about it, even if it was clear that they wanted to.

Instead, Jo raised an inquiring eyebrow at him. “How weird?”

Dean mentally sighed in relief when he realized that Jo had actually let him get away with his obvious attempt to change the subject.

On the outside, though, Dean simply pursed his lips, as though thinking his answer over for a short beat.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cas was still slightly turned on his seat. He was probably still looking at Dean, still waiting for some kind of explanation.

Dean continued to ignore him.

“Super weird,” he finally concluded. “Gabriel Speight came to talk to me earlier. Apparently, he really wants to go on a date with you.” He said the last part while staring at Jo, making it clear that he was referring to her.

“He _what?”_ Benny asked, eyebrows flying up to his forehead.

Jo let out a loud chortle, shaking her head. “Oh, _wow._ I’m _flattered_ ,” she said, making a show of dramatically pressing a hand to her chest, right over her heart, before letting out another huffed laugh. She rolled her eyes, picking up her half-eaten sandwich again. “Freakin’ weirdo.”

Dean chuckled, nodding. “I know, right?”

After that, the conversation turned light again, returning to much safer grounds, and as the minutes slowly ticked by, Dean finally felt himself relax again.

From time to time, though, he would catch Cas glancing at him again from the corner of his eye, probably still wondering about what’d happened earlier, but Dean chose to pretend he didn’t see it.

***~*~*~*~***

About ten minutes after leaving the school for the day, Dean found himself rolling the Impala into the small parking lot in front of his father’s garage, finding himself a nice spot to leave his Baby and shutting off the engine. His Dad’s employees all greeted Dean with friendly waves and polite smiles as the boy made his way through the shop, heading for the small office in the back where he assumed his father would be.

When he reached the door to John’s office, he knocked softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the wood. “Dad?”

There was some shuffling behind the door, and then a low, gruff, “It’s open,” echoed from inside.

Dean opened the door slowly, only to find his Dad sitting behind his desk by the window, examining a pile of papers.

The man glanced up for just a second, then looked back down at his papers as he waved a hand in the air, gesturing for his son to step inside. “Hey, Dean. Come in, and close the door behind you.”

Dean nodded, doing as he was told, stepping inside the room and shutting the door softly behind himself. He made his way across the room calmly, then took a seat on the sole chair placed right in front of his father's desk, dropping his bag onto the floor by his feet.

John took a moment to rearrange the papers on his desk, then pushed the pile away, leaning back in his chair. There was a clear hint of judgement in his eyes when he announced, “You’re late.”

Dean frowned, glancing over at the clock hanging on the wall to his left. “Uh, I left the school ten minutes ago, Dad. I’m not late.”

John raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t seem very impressed by his son’s answer. “Didn’t you get off school two hours ago?”

Oh. _Oh._

“Yeah,” Dean nodded slowly, “But then I had theater practice. You know I have them every Monday and Wednesday after school.”

How many more times would they need to have this exact same conversation?

A spark of recognition flashed in his father’s eyes. He nodded slowly, clenching his jaw. “Right. You… you still do that.”

Dean clenched his own jaw, feeling annoyed. “Yeah, I still do that.”

John nodded again—slowly, carefully. “Right.”

Dean _had_ told John about joining the theater club again in the beginning of the semester, just like he’d done last year, and the year before that. He’d even told his Dad that they were doing _Cabaret_ this year, and that he was pretty excited about finally getting to do a musical. In fact, the drama teacher had even said that Dean had a pretty nice voice, so he was singing a freaking _solo,_ which was all sorts of amazing and terrifying all at once, and he was pretty freaking certain that he’d told John about that, too.

Sure, he’d brought it up during dinner one night, and Mary and Sam had also been there, so technically, Dean had told all three of them on the same occasion, but even if his Dad had had absolutely no reaction to the announcement at the time, Dean had at least _hoped_ that his father had been paying attention.

But apparently, he just wasn’t so lucky.

“Weren’t you gonna try out for football this year?” John asked after a beat.

Dean’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. Was he actually serious?

“No,” he replied slowly. _“You_ said that you thought I should try out for football this year, but I told you I don’t even _like_ football.”

A heavy frown formed in John’s brows. The look in his eyes was… measuring, calculating, holding what looked like a silent accusation.

Dean couldn’t help but shift in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of his father's gaze.

“So you _didn’t_ try out for the football team?” his Dad finally asked.

“No, sir,” Dean replied with a small shake of his head.

John raised a hand to scratch at his beard. “Well, can you still try out?”

_What?_

“No,” Dean shook his head more vehemently this time. “Tryouts were a month ago, Dad. The team’s already full.” _Thank God._

John’s eyebrows rose again. He did nod eventually, but he definitely didn't look happy about that answer. “Well, I just… I just think that a sport like football would make you seem more… you know.”

_Damn it. Not this shit again._

“What’re you getting at, Dad?” Dean asked, doing his best to keep his voice calm and perfectly even.

John made a weird swirling gesture with his hand, like he was trying to find the right words to express whatever he wished to say right then.

Finally, he settled on, “I just think this whole theater thing could give people the… _wrong_ impression about you.”

Oh, boy. Here we go.

Dean tensed up in his chair, mentally bracing himself for what was about to come. He really didn’t like the direction this conversation seemed to be going in, but there was nothing he could do to change that. He couldn’t just get up from that chair and leave, couldn’t just run away from that room as fast as his legs could carry him _,_ as much as he wanted to.

Instead, he decided that the best approach here might be to play dumb for a little while. His Dad _might_ grow suspicious if Dean understood what he was implying too quickly, right?

“What kind of impression?” Dean asked, a small frown in his brows. He tried to sound curious and just a little bit confused. He was pretty sure he nailed it.

Who said theater classes weren’t useful, huh?

John seemed pretty uncomfortable all of a sudden. He shifted in his chair, lifting a hand up to his face so he could scratch at his beard, before moving it away from his face and waving it in the air a bit, once again looking like he was having trouble finding the right words to voice whatever thoughts were floating around inside his head in that moment.

Dean had a pretty bad feeling about it, but he still waited patiently. He _was_ a little tenser than before, of course, but he did his best not to let his apprehension show on his face.

“Well, you haven’t had a girlfriend in a while,” John finally explained, and _wow,_ low blow. Thanks, Dad. “Didn’t that Lisa girl break up with you right around the time you _joined_ this… theater club thing?”

Oh, okay, so he was actually going there, then.

Dean simply raised his eyebrows, unsure of how the hell he was supposed to respond to that.

And apparently, John took that as a cue to _keep talking,_ because of course Dean wanted to hear _more_. Really, he just couldn’t get enough of this crap.

“I mean, aren’t you worried that people might think you’re gay?”

And there it was.

Wow. Dean really wished he hadn’t come here today. Maybe he could have thought up an excuse to get away from this whole situation, because really, trying to come up with a believable reason why he couldn’t stop by the shop today and then dealing with his father’s annoyance later at home would have been a lot better than having to deal with this disaster of a conversation right now.

“Dad, haven’t we had this conversation already?”

“Yes, we have,” John nodded, his jaw a bit tense, shoulders stiff. “And that’s the worst part—that you don’t listen to me. I just… I’m worried about you, Dean. I’m you father. I just want what’s best for you.”

Yeah, because what was _best_ for Dean was quitting the theater group—which was something he _really_ loved—so that he could try to get into football—which he absolutely _despised_ —just so people wouldn’t think that he could _possibly_ be gay, so that he would seem manly and get a freaking girlfriend that he didn’t even _want._

Seriously, what the hell?

Dean sighed, shaking his head. “Dad, can we please not do this right now?”

Somehow, that actually worked. As soon as those words left Dean’s mouth, John’s expression sobered up a little, and he glanced over at the closed door of his office, something very close to fear flashing in his eyes for a split second, like he was worried that one of his employees could be walking past that door and might overhear some part of this dreadful conversation.

Because God forbid _that_ happened.

“Alright,” the man gave a sharp nod, straightening up in his chair.

When he didn’t immediately say anything else, though, Dean asked, “Did you have something else you wanted to talk to me about?”

John blinked, and then his eyes widened a little, like he just remembered that he’d texted Dean in the middle of the morning, asking him to stop by after school.

“Yes! I do, actually,” he nodded again. “I, uh… Well, to summarize, I… I really could use your help with something, son.”

Dean raised a curious eyebrow at him. “Okay… with what?”

John leaned forward, placing his arms onto his desk, his hands joined right on top of a small stack of papers. “Your mother and I are getting pretty close to our 20th anniversary, and I have no fucking idea what to give her.”

Okay, that was… _not_ what Dean had been expecting to hear.

“What?”

John lifted his hands up in front of his chest. The gesture looked like some sort of peace offering, or maybe a silent apology. “I’m really lost here, son. Your mother thinks we should _make_ our freaking gifts this year, that our _20 th_ anniversary is somehow different from all the others, so our gifts have to be meaningful or something, and I really have no fucking idea what to do. I’m already _horrible_ at giving gifts when I’m allowed to _buy_ them! But actually _making_ something?” He shook his head. “I’ve got nothing. _Absolutely_ nothing. So if you could help your old man think of something, you’d truly be saving my ass from the fire.”

Dean huffed, but nodded. This was a lot better than the theater-can-make-you-look-gay conversation, at least, so he really wasn’t complaining.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he said. “I can try to think of something.”

A big, relieved smile spread on his Dad’s lips. His wide, bulky shoulders looked a lot lighter than they had just a minute before. “Great! Great. Thank you, son. I knew I could count on you.”

Dean smiled back at him, hoping it looked genuine. There was still an uncomfortable feeling churning in his gut, though, sour and acrid, burning in his belly, constantly reminding him of what they had been talking about earlier, of the legitimate _worry_ he’d seen shining in his Dad’s eyes when the man had talked about what a fucking tragedy it would be if people so much as _thought_ that Dean could be gay, but he did his best to ignore it for now.

However, even after he left, while he calmly drove the Impala home, guiding her carefully through the familiar streets of his neighborhood, his father’s words still echoed inside his head, following him like curse, like a dark cloud just hovering over his head. After literal _years_ of dealing with this kind of shit from his Dad, you’d think Dean would have grown used to it by now, that he'd learned how to brush it off, that it’d become _easier_ with time.

But it didn’t. It really, _really_ didn’t.

***~*~*~*~***

“Dude, have you checked Lawrence High Secrets today?”

Dean huffed, shaking his head. “No, because I don’t see the point of checking a stupid school blog _every single day.”_

Jo rolled her eyes at him over their video call. “Well, there’s a new post! And it’s like, the biggest confession I’ve ever seen on that site. Really, it’s _scandalous—_ but also kind of cute, in a way? Like, I’m kinda proud of whoever wrote it. It definitely took some guts.”

Dean sighed, slumping dejectedly in his chair. “Do I really need to see it?”

“Yes! I’m telling you—it’s _huge!”_

Dean shook his head at her, but he did click out of his Facebook and open up a new tab, searching through his bookmarks until he finally found the one he’d saved to the Lawrence High Secrets blog.

He hated that damn thing, true, but having the link to it saved in his browser made it a whole lot easier when his friends made him go over there to read a freaking post that 'he just _had_ to see'—just like right now.

The page loaded quickly enough, and Dean scrolled down, eyes settling on the latest post.

**Life’s never quite turned out the way I planned it—not even in the slightest. Ever since I was little, I’ve grown the habit of planning out my every step, my every move. I used to plan out every single day as soon as I woke up.**

**But these past few years, everything changed way too fast, and suddenly there was just no way for me to plan ahead, no way for me to know what exactly would be coming every single day. It was frightening, when it all started, but I suppose I’m more accustomed to it now. The lack of a pattern became the new normalcy, and at some point, I realized there was nothing I could do about it. I accepted it, just like I did several other things in my life.**

**Sometimes something still catches me by surprise, though. Sometimes things happen when you least expect them, and there’s really nothing you can do about it. It turns your whole world upside down without a warning, and you’re just left there, disoriented and confused, without a clue what to do about it. You can’t change it, but you can’t simply ignore it, either. You can’t _fix_ it.**

**And sometimes, keeping your own struggles to yourself, hidden away in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, cloaked so that no one around you can see them, is the worst thing you can do. It weighs you down, every second of every day. It _drains_ you.**

**So I’m here today to… try to take some of that weight off my chest. Maybe that will make me feel better, maybe it won’t—I’m really not sure.**

**But, well, I supposed it can’t hurt to try, can it?**

**So, here it goes:**

**I’m gay. I’m gay, and I’m in love with someone I can never have. Someone who will _never_ see me as something more than a friend. I know for a fact that I’ll never mean more than that to him, and it _hurts._**

**If anyone needs someone to talk to, about anything, please feel free to contact me through the email listed below. Maybe we can be miserable together.**

**\- Jacques**

At first, all Dean managed to do was simply blink at the screen of his laptop while his mind struggled to process what he’d just read. For a moment, he failed to truly wrap his head around the _meaning_ of all the words currently staring back at him, bold white letters in stark contrast against the black background of the site.

And then it finally sunk in—the _meaning_ behind all the words he’d just read, the message carried by that post—and his heart started beating faster inside his chest, because _fuck_ if he didn’t relate to all that. He could literally see himself thinking all those things—well, except for the gay part, but him being bi really seemed to be the only difference between Dean and whoever had written that post. It really was like someone had simply reached into his head and plucked out his thoughts, only to write them down and post them on that stupid blog for everyone else to see.

Fuck, the poor guy had even talked about being in love with someone he could never have—a _friend_ , he’d said. How the _hell_ could there be someone out there, studying in the exact same school Dean went to, who was going through the _exact_ same thing _he_ was going through? How was that even statistically _possible?_

Well, he supposed it _was_ viable, if you really think about it. Their school had what, over two thousand students? Maybe even more? So, yeah, it was definitely possible that there were _two_ closeted queer guys who were secretly in love with their friends amongst the Lawrence High student body.

And based on that post, not only was it possible, but it was actually _real._

“There’s not a single Jacques in our whole school,” Jo’s voice suddenly snapped Dean back to reality, and he blinked a few times, tearing his eyes away from the screen of his laptop and forcing himself to focus on what the girl was saying. “People have checked already.”

“Probably a fake name, then,” Dean guessed, though even to his own ears, he sounded a bit distant, distracted. He really hoped Jo wouldn’t notice it.

“Yup,” Jo agreed _._ “But I mean, who could blame him, right? If people knew who he was, the poor guy would never hear the end of it. You know how many jerks there are at our school. Just look at Aaron and Charlie. I don’t think those two have had a single day of peace since they came out.”

Dean nodded slowly, hesitantly. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice coming out a little hoarse. He glanced around his room, silently searching for something he could use to get out of this conversation, until his eyes finally settled on Bones. The dog was curled up on the floor by the door, clearly not even slightly interested in what Dean was doing.

But he was still the perfect excuse, and a metaphorical light bulb turned on above Dean’s head at the sight of him.

A grimace formed in his features, conveying what he intended to be disgust. “Oh, shit, I gotta go,” he announced, letting a hint of annoyance bleed into his voice. He was pretty proud of how convincing it came out. “Bones just threw up on my fucking rug.”

“Oh. _Ew.”_ Jo snorted. “Good luck with that, then.”

“Yeah, thanks. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Dean ended the call quickly, then tossed his phone onto his desk, completely forgotten for the time being as Dean turned back to his laptop, gaze immediately drawn to the email address listed at the very end of the blog post.

There was this… new, weird rush racing through him, washing over his entire body like a tidal wave, an unfamiliar feeling that made him all jittery, like he was suddenly full of energy. He felt like he should be doing _something._ He _wanted_ to do something about this—he really, _really_ did. This was a pretty unique opportunity—having someone to talk to who _understood_ , someone who was pretty much on the same boat as him.

Dean also had a lot of things he wanted to get off his chest, and maybe this was his chance to do exactly that. Maybe this was his _only_ chance.

But, fuck, should he really do it, though? What if this guy figured out who he was? What the hell was he supposed to do? This whole thing could either turn out to be pretty freaking wonderful, or downright _disastrous._

But Dean could be smart about it. If he was careful, there was no way that this guy could figure out his true identity. Jacques was probably a fake name, anyway, so Dean just had to come up with a fake name for himself, too.

Keeping that last thought in mind, before he could chicken out, Dean clicked out of the school blog page and opened up another tab, going over to his email and logging out of his normal account. If he was being smart about this, then he definitely couldn’t email this guy from his personal account.

He opened up the page to create another account, and then froze, trying to figure out what username he should use. His first thought was **Impala67** , but he dropped it soon enough with a scoff and an incredulous shake of his head, because that would be the very _opposite_ of being smart about this. Literally _everyone_ at their school knew what car he drove—sometimes, he still caught people gawking at his Baby in the parking lot. If he went with that username, he might as well just sign whatever he was about to send this guy with **Dean freaking Winchester.**

He thought about it for a while—minutes, really. He lied down on his bed and stared up at the ceiling, trying to come up with a name that didn’t immediately give away who he was, but that at the same time wasn't something completely ridiculous.

He went back to Jacques’ post a couple times, hoping that inspiration might eventually hit him if he stared at it for long enough, if he read it enough times, but all he could think about every time he got to the part about him being in love with his friend was _Cas,_ and how Dean felt the exact same way about him, but Dean sure as hell couldn’t use Cas’ name here—for obvious reasons.

But maybe…

The metaphorical light bulb went on again.

Dean glanced down at Jacques’ email again, taking in his username.

**heyitsJacques**

He considered the username for a moment, twisting it around inside his head, until he finally made a decision.

With quick, clumsy fingers, Dean returned to the page to create a new email account and filled in the username field.

**heyitsBlue**

Yes, he was calling himself _Blue_ because Cas’ eyes were blue, and because anything of that color instantly made Dean think of him. It was _perfect,_ because there was no fucking way anyone would ever make that connection, and at the same time, it still meant something to Dean.

Shut up.

The other steps to create an account were a lot easier than the first one, and soon enough, Dean found himself staring at the empty inbox of his brand new email account. He pulled in a steadying breath, clicked on the **New Email** button in the corner of the page, and typed in Jacques’ email address. He filled in the **Subject** field with a friendly **Hey, Jacques!** because he really couldn’t think of something better.

What really mattered here was the actual message, anyway, and not the freaking subject.

And much to his surprise, when it was finally time to compose the actual message, Dean’s fingers pretty much _flew_ over the keyboard, punching the small keys of his laptop nonstop. He’d thought he would freeze up when it was time to actually _write_ the email, that he’d spend even longer on deciding what he wanted to _say_ to the guy than he did on trying to come up with a fake name, but no matter how uncertain he’d been about doing this before, that didn’t actually happen. He didn’t freeze up _at all_ , and only a couple minutes later, Dean found himself staring at a fully written message, which had turned out a little longer than he’d planned.

**Dear Jacques,**

**I get it. Sometimes you think yourself to be someone your whole life. You wake up every day believing it, and you go to sleep every night believing it, because it’s just… easier that way. You don’t even question it, really, and everything seems just the way it’s supposed to be, until the day you finally realize that maybe you’re not the person everyone around you believes you to be—the person they _want_ you to be. Maybe you never even were that person at all, from the very start, but you were just so fixated on trying to make the people around you happy—or on _protecting_ yourself—that it takes you way too long to really notice it. But when you finally realize the truth, your entire world kinda turns upside down, and everything changes—at least through your eyes. To everyone around you, you’re exactly the same, but to _you_ … everything’s different.**

**And it’s freeing, in a way, just as much as it is terrifying.**

**I also have a secret—well, two secrets really, and when I read your post, I wasn’t sure how to feel, because my secrets are so similar from yours. I was shocked at how much I related to everything you wrote, but I was also comforted. I felt _relieved_ , because I finally found someone who could _understand,_ someone that I could actually _talk_ to without the fear of being judged.**

**And, well, I was a little scared, too. I still am. But I really want to get this out. I’ve never told anyone about this—about _any_ of it, so you’re the first one to hear it.**

**I’m bi, and I’m also in love with someone I can never have. I’m a guy, and he’s guy, but he’s also a dear friend that I just can’t risk losing. I know he doesn’t feel the same way about me, so I can never tell him the truth. I can’t even bear the thought of it. I can’t lose him. I just can’t.**

**So… yeah. If you want to talk, I’m here.**

**Sincerely,**

**Blue**

Dean read the email a couple more times, making sure that he was happy with everything, and then pressed **Send** before he could think too much about it, closing his laptop shut with a little too much force and pushing it away from himself on the bed.

He raised his hands up to his head, digging his fingers into his hair. His heart was beating so loudly, so frantically that he could feel it in his freaking _throat._

He did it. He sent it. He _actually_ sent it.

He just _came out_ to someone, and he didn’t even know who it was.

Holy shit.

_Holy shit!_

***~*~*~*~***

When Dean woke up the next morning, his email inbox was still pitifully empty—well, almost, anyway. He’d had a brief freak-out when his laptop beeped, signaling that he’d received a new email, but it was just that standard, automated message welcoming him to his new freaking account.

So, yeah, no word from Jacques yet—which was fine, really. Dean had sent that email a little late last night, and anyway, it wasn’t like he’d been expecting Jacques to respond right away. They had school today, so the guy probably hadn’t had time to respond yet. Come to think of it, he’d probably not even checked his email yet.

And that was fine. It was.

Really.

But that didn’t mean Dean wasn’t constantly checking his phone, cursing the _horrible_ cell service they got at the school whenever his inbox either refused to load, or simply took its sweet fucking time doing it. He spent most of his free periods staring down at his phone, and sometimes, he even dared to pull the device out during class, hiding it under his desk as he repeatedly refreshed his inbox, risking getting caught by the teacher just so he could check if maybe Jacques had responded.

He got a little bolder when he was outside of a classroom, though, more daring, walking around the hallways with his phone gripped firmly in his hand, in plain sight, staring down at it as he weaved his way through the sea of students that crowded the hallways.

Which, in hindsight, wasn’t his _wisest_ decision.

Around mid-morning, Dean was just minding his own business, completely entranced by his phone, staring longingly at the small screen as he refreshed his email for what felt like the millionth time today, when a hand suddenly snatched the device right out of his grasp, moving way too quickly, faster than Dean could react.

Dean raised his head, eyes wide with surprise, only to find Principal Garth staring back at him, holding up Dean’s phone in one hand, his sock puppet concealing the other.

_Shit._

“You know the rules, Dean-man,” Garth told him, giving the teenager a pointed look. “No texting in the hallways.”

“I wasn’t texting,” Dean argued, feeling a wave of panic washing over his insides, bubbling up in his stomach.

He knew that making up excuses wouldn’t actually help him, though. It wouldn't change anything. He was already screwed, and there was no fixing it now.

Fuck, why hadn’t he been more _careful?_ He’d been so distracted, he hadn’t even _seen_ Garth standing there.

Garth gave him a gentle smile—and it actually looked genuine. “Oh, Dean-man. Were you holding your phone in your hand?” He turned to the freaking sock puppet, tilting his head a bit as he looked down at it. “Was he _walking_ while holding his phone in his hand, Mr. Fizzles?”

The sock puppet nodded, and okay, alright, so they were doing this, then. Garth was bringing the sock puppet into the conversation, like any other sane principal would do, at any other school.

Great.

Rumor has it that Principal Garth used to be a dentist, which was where he’d started using the freaking sock puppet—to calm down little kids who were scared of going to the dentist—but at some point, he’d quit his former job to pursue a career in education.

And for some freaking reason that Dean really couldn’t fathom—that no one in the entire freaking school could fathom, really—the guy thought that bringing the sock puppet with him to school every day was actually a good idea.

To a freaking _high_ school.

Yeah.

“Yes, he was,” Garth said in a cartoonish voice, opening the sock puppet’s mouth in time with the words to make it look like the thing was actually talking.

“And was he distracted?”

“Yes, he was. _Very_ distracted.”

“And that’s dangerous, isn’t it, Mr. Fizzles?”

The shock puppet nodded. “Yes, it is. It is _very_ dangerous, sir. You should always be aware of your surroundings, always pay attention to where you’re going. Being distracted by your phone at school is very irresponsible. You could actually _hurt_ someone. And we don’t want that.”

“That’s right, Mr. Fizzles. We definitely don’t want that.” Principal Garth turned back to Dean. “We don’t, do we, Dean-man?”

Okay, this was fucking ridiculous.

But because he was still talking to the freaking _principal,_ Dean held back the urge to scoff and roll his eyes.

Instead, he nodded—tightly, slowly. “No, we don’t,” he agreed.

A wide, proud smile spread on Garth’s face. “That’s right! We don’t!” He turned back to his puppet. “So, what do you think we should do, Mr. Fizzles?”

“Oh, you know what we have to do, Mr. Garth.”

Principal Garth laughed, like he was truly having an actual _conversation_ with the freaking sock puppet, like this whole thing was perfectly _normal._ “Oh, you’re right, Mr. Fizzles. You’re _always_ right!” He turned back to Dean. “I’m sorry, Dean-man,” he said, locking the screen of Dean’s phone by pressing the button on the side of it, not even glancing at the device as he did it, “But I gotta keep this until the end of the school day.”

Oh, fuck _that._

“Wait, are you _serious?”_ Dean asked, eyebrows shooting up to his forehead. “Not just until lunch?”

The principal shook his head, giving Dean a sad smile as he put the boy's phone away in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “Sorry, Dean-man, but no can do. You need to focus on your studies, because school is important. It’s your _future._ You don’t need your phone while you’re within these walls.” He held up his free hand as he said that last part, waving it widely in the air, gesturing at the walls that surrounded them.

Dean sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat at his sides. He knew there was no way for him win here, so he had no other choice but to accept his fate.

Garth raised his free hand again, patting Dean on the shoulder. “Now, there's no need to look so blue. Just stop by my office at the end of the day. Your phone will be there, waiting for you. Alright?”

Dean clenched his jaw, but managed to nod again.

Garth gave him one last smile and a little wave with the hand that was still concealed by the freaking sock puppet, then walked away, disappearing at the end of the hallway.

As soon as he was gone, Dean raised his hands up to his head, gripping at his hair, not really caring that there were a bunch of people around him, countless students milling around the hallways just like always. No one seemed to be paying him any mind, anyway.

_Fuck._

_What the hell was he supposed to do now?_

***~*~*~*~***

The rest of the school day passed by about a thousand times more slowly than it normally did. The minutes literally _dragged_ by, the hands of the clocks that hung on the wall of each classroom ticking by so lethargically, it really felt like Dean had fallen into another dimension where the school day had about 20 hours, and every hour had a thousand minutes.

It was _excruciating._

His friends noticed there was something bothering him, and they did try to ask him about it, tried to get him to tell them what was wrong, to explain why he was in such a bad mood today, but after the tenth try, they finally gave up on it. Cas seemed particularly invested on it, even more than Jo and Benny, but in the end, when confronted with Dean’s unyielding stubbornness, he, too, had no other choice but to drop it eventually.

The thing was—Dean was pretty distracted throughout the entire day, and honestly, he wasn't even trying really hard to hide it, but that wasn't happening just because Principal Garth had taken his phone and he had no way to check his email.

No, because now that he no longer had his phone with him at all times, now that he couldn’t just reach into his pocket and refresh his inbox whenever he felt the need to, all that was left for Dean to do was _think—_ and, well, that never led to anything good.

And since he was so nervous about that email that he just couldn’t get himself to really focus on any of his classes, well, Dean did _a lot_ of thinking. In fact, he did so much thinking that at some point, he finally convinced himself that maybe he wouldn’t even get a reply at all.

After all, Dean had simply taken a shot in the dark, taken a _chance._ Jacques didn’t actually _owe_ him a reply. He didn’t owe Dean _anything._

And what if Jacques regretted making that post, anyway? What if he was too scared to reply and have his identity discovered somehow? Now that he thought about it, if he _were_ Jacques, Dean didn’t think he _would_ respond.

But, well, Dean wouldn’t have even made that post in the first place, so what did he know?

Those uncertain, conflicting thoughts accompanied Dean throughout the entire school day, and they still hovered in the back of his head, just lurking in the shadows of his mind as he hurriedly made his way to the principal’s office after the final bell finally rang through the air, freeing all the students for the day. The hallways were packed with teenagers eager to get away from this place as soon as possible, chatting excitedly about plans they had for later, so Dean had to push his way through the crowd a bit, but he managed to get to where he was going quickly enough.

The door was open when he got there, but Dean still knocked a couple times before going inside, leaning in through the doorframe as he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood to announce his presence.

The principal’s secretary—a small woman named Ava, who always seemed be wearing a fake-friendly smile and who very clearly hated her job—looked up from her computer at the sound of his knocking.

“Well, hello,” she said, and there it was again—the fake, forced smile she always wore like a freaking mask. It didn’t even look like she was bothering to put any effort into it whatsoever. It actually looked like she was having a stroke. “What can I do for you, sweetie?”

Seriously? Sweetie?

“I, uh… Principal Garth has my phone,” Dean explained, stepping into the small reception area that separated the principal’s office from the rest of the school, gripping the strap of his backpack with one hand. “I just came to get it back. He told me to stop by after school was done.”

A spark of recognition came to life in Ava’s eyes. “Oh, yes! He told me about that. You must be…” She glanced down at her desk, moving a few papers around until she finally located a small, pink Post-it note. There was something scrawled on it, but Dean couldn’t read it from where he was standing. “Dean Winchester, right?”

Dean nodded. “Yup. That’s me.”

Ava gave him a small nod, then raised a hand and gestured to the door right behind her desk, just a bit to her right. “Mr. Fitzgerald is free now. Just go right in.”

Dean nodded again. “Thanks.”

He hurried to cross the small reception in a few quick strides, heading straight for the door that led into Principal Garth’s office. His heart was beating a bit too fast inside his chest, but he couldn’t really explain why.

Well, actually, he _could,_ but he tried not to think too much about it.

Because this was it. After literal _hours_ of waiting, of thinking and pretty much _agonizing_ about this moment, Dean would finally get to check his email again, and there was a tiny sliver of a chance that a reply from Jacques was there, sitting unread in his inbox, just waiting for him.

Or maybe his inbox was still painfully empty. That was also a possibility—a _very real_ possibility, in fact.

Dean knew he had to prepare himself for either scenario—hell, he’d all but _convinced_ himself that he _wouldn’t_ get a reply at this point, but that last thought still caused a painful tug to his heart.

Damn, he really hoped Jacques had responded, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t keep his hopes up.

“Dean-man!” Principal Garth gave him a big, bright smile from behind his desk. He raised an eyebrow, giving the boy a pointed look. “I think I know why _you_ stopped by today, huh?”

Dean gave him a small, uncomfortable smile and shrugged, still gripping at the strap of his bag. “Yeah, I just… I just came to get my phone real quick, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Garth nodded, leaning to the side on his chair so he could reach for the drawers built into his desk. He pulled one of them open, and held up Dean’s phone with another smile.

“Here it is!” he announced, holding up the device, stretching his hand so he could hand it to Dean over his desk.

Dean stepped forward, holding up his hand so he could grab it, but the man yanked his hand back right at the last second, abruptly pulling the phone out of the boy’s reach.

“One last thing, though,” he started, and it took all of Dean’s willpower not to roll his eyes and groan in frustration, because he _really_ didn’t have the patience for this.

But he _also_ really didn’t want to get put in detention for the rest of the afternoon, so that definitely helped him reel it all in.

“What did we learn today, Dean-man?”

Oh, come _on._ Dean just wanted his freaking _phone._

He shrugged, but still tried to think of an actual answer that might make the principal happy, because he also really didn’t want to have to talk to the freaking sock puppet again.

“That it’s dangerous to… walk and text in the hallways?” Dean tried, because it was the best thing he could come up with.

And apparently, that was the right thing to say, because the principal gave Dean an approving nod. “Yes, it is!” He flashed the boy another big, genuine smile, his eyes twinkling happily, like he was actually _proud_ , before he finally, _finally_ handed Dean his phone. “There ya go.”

Dean gripped the device a little too tightly in his hand, holding back the urge to unlock the screen and check his email right then and there, in front of the freaking principal. “Thanks,” he said instead, flapping the phone in the air a couple times, hitting it against his fingers. He raised a hand and pointed at the open door right behind him. “I guess I’ll just go, then.”

Principal Garth nodded, still smiling. “See ya around, Dean-man!”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, pocketing his phone, then spun around on his heel and hurried out of that office before the principal could find some _other_ reason to pull out the sock puppet. Somehow, he _always_ found a reason to bring out the freaking sock puppet.

If Dean told you that he walked _normally_ to his car, that he crossed the school at a perfectly calm, slow pace, well, he would be lying. He didn’t _run_ , per se, but his steps were definitely a little hurried. He also cursed lowly under his breath when a few slow-walking stragglers got in his way, and he might have pushed his way past a couple of them when he lost his patience, but he didn’t actually _run_.

But despite the few obstacles in his way, soon enough, Dean found himself sliding into the Impala, hearing her let out a loud, metallic whine as she adjusted to his weight before he shut the door.

And then he froze, just staring right ahead at the tall, imposing building that made up his school as he tried to find the courage to pull his phone back out of his pocket and check his freaking email.

He’d spent every waking second since Principal Garth had confiscated his phone just _yearning_ for this, for the moment when he would _finally_ be allowed to do this again. And yet, for some freaking reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it now.

It was one thing to think that there was a pretty big chance he wouldn’t get a response from Jacques, to _convince_ himself of it, but apparently, it was a _whole_ other thing to actually check his inbox and find it empty, to get actual _confirmation_ of it.

But maybe it wouldn’t be empty. Maybe Jacques _had_ replied to his email, and Dean was here, obsessing and worrying over absolutely nothing, without an actual reason.

That last thought was apparently enough to shake Dean out of his trance, and a tiny, feeble spark of hope burst to life inside his chest. He pulled in a deep breath and finally managed to make his hands move, shifting in his seat so he could reach into his back pants pocket and pull out his phone.

His lock screen had a couple notifications, but none of them from his email—which was expected, of course, and didn’t actually mean anything by itself. He’d turned off his email notifications last night, afraid that someone might see something they weren’t supposed to see on his lock screen, and clearly that had been the right call. The last thing Dean needed was for the freaking principal to see a preview of Jacques’ reply to his coming out email. That would have been the cherry on top of the fucking cake.

With hurried, clumsy fingers, Dean entered his password and unlocked his phone, then opened up his email inbox with his heart beating in his freaking throat.

It took a few seconds for the page to load, during which Dean didn’t allow himself to freaking _breathe,_ but finally, _finally,_ after what felt like a freaking _eternity,_ his inbox updated, and his phone chimed, signaling that he had a new email.

Dean’s heart skipped a beat at the sound, and then picked up its previous frantic rhythm again when the boy's eyes settled on the small preview of the new email.

**From: heyitsJacques**

**_Subject: Hello, Blue!_**

He’d replied.

Jacques had _replied._

Oh, shit.

_Shit._

For some reason, Dean’s knee-jerk reaction as soon as that fact registered in his mind and he remembered that he was still in his car, parked in the school parking lot, concealed by nothing more than the Impala’s clear, utterly transparent glass windows, was to hastily lock the screen of his phone and lower the device down to his lap, afraid that someone could _somehow_ get a glance at that email while they walked past his car.

He glanced around, making sure that no one had been close enough to have seen something they weren’t supposed to, before he tossed his phone onto the seat right beside him, then shoved his key in the ignition and started up the car.

He couldn’t possibly take the risk of reading that email here, sitting in plain sight.

Driving home in a calm, safe, responsible speed was a true testament to Dean’s self-control, but he was very proud to say that he got home at about the same time he did every day, and not a minute earlier. That was real accomplishment.

The house was empty, just like every day Dean got home from school. Sam had a lot of extra clubs and activities that he participated in every single day of the week, because he was a good little nerd and all, so he wouldn’t be home until a couple hours later. And their parents were still at work—John at the garage, and Mary at the mental health clinic where she worked as a psychologist.

Well, Bones was there, of course, but when the chipper golden retriever came bouncing down the hallway to greet him, panting a bit and wagging his tail in clear excitement that there was _finally_ someone around to give him attention, all Dean did was pet him a little bit, before he found his legs hurriedly carrying him up the stairs, then down the hallway and into his room.

He dropped his bag on the floor, then closed the door behind himself and locked it, just to be safe.

And less than three minutes later, Dean found himself sitting in front of his computer, his mouse cursor hovering over Jacques’ unread email, the stark, bold letters glaring back at him from the screen, silently mocking him, as though quietly asking if Dean really had the courage to open the response.

He really wasn’t sure that he did.

It still took him a handful of minutes to actually do it, which Dean spent trying to convince himself that he _would_ be fine if that email actually said that Jacques hadn’t meant what he’d written at the end of that post, that he regretted making that post in the first place and he’d realized that he didn’t actually want to open up to some total stranger who went to the same school as him. Those fears echoed inside Dean’s head in an endless loop, replaying over and over again in his mind, but eventually, he realized that just sitting there, worrying about what exactly was written in that email wouldn’t actually solve anything. There was only _one_ way for him to know what Jacques had written back.

Keeping that last thought in the forefront of his mind, Dean took in a deep breath, swallowed down all his reservations and finally opened the email.

Once again feeling his heart beating in his throat, Dean started reading as soon as the message loaded on his screen.

**Received: September 13 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Hello, Blue!**

**Hello, Blue,**

**I honestly wasn’t expecting to get a response to my post, so I was very surprised when I saw your email sitting in my inbox this morning, and then that surprise slowly melted into relief as I read your words. It really is a wonderful thing, finding someone who understands you. It’s refreshing. I’ve never had anyone I could talk to about these things before.**

**I’m not sure how to do this, so I’ll just follow my instincts here. I feel like I should tell you a bit about my story, about how I figured out who I was, and how I coped with it. And if you feel comfortable enough, maybe you could share _your_ story. I would like to get to know you a little bit better, if that’s okay.**

**I started to figure out there was something different about me when I was 16—and yes, I know, that does sound a little late, but that would make sense if you knew my entire backstory. To be perfectly honest, maybe that would have happened even later, if it weren’t for… well, a very special person. I only realized who I truly was the day I realized I was in love with him.**

**Needless to say, I was terrified. Much like you, I knew I couldn't take the risk of telling him, because I know I might lose him if I do, and that is just something I cannot bear. I can't even consider it. He means too much to me. And he, too, only sees me as a friend, so I just have to accept that's all we'll ever be—friends. But honestly, I'd rather have him as a friend than not have him in my life at all.**

**No one knows about me too. I mean, sure, I sort of came out to the whole school with that post, but they still don't know who I am— _you_ don't even know who I am, so technically, I'm still closeted. It's still a secret. Not even my parents know—although maybe they wouldn't really care. I really don't know. My relationship with them is... complicated, to say the least. Maybe that's why I never told them, either. I don't think they would hate me, that they would disown me, but I also don't think I would get any support from them.**

**So, what about you, Blue? What’s _your_ self-discovery story?**

**I really look forward to hearing back for you,**

**Jacques**

Dean let out a big breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as soon as he got to the end, feeling his chest about a thousand pounds lighter.

Fuck, that response was even better than Dean had allowed himself to imagine, that he’d allowed himself to _hope_ for. Part of him had still been expecting some sort of dismissal, an apologetic message telling Dean that Jacques had made that post in the heat of the moment, and that he regretted it now, so they definitely shouldn’t communicate anymore.

So, yeah, it was safe to say that this was a _huge_ relief.

Before he could overthink this, Dean pressed the **Reply** button at the top of the page and started typing, fingers flying over the keyboard once again, sliding easily over the keys in smooth, practiced movements.

**Sent: September 13 th, 2019**

**Subject: Story time!**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**My story’s not so… well, romantic, I suppose. I guess on some level I always knew I was different, but it took me a while to fully realize _why_. I’ve always found girls attractive, but I knew what _that_ meant—every single male figure in my life always made sure of that. But looking back, I’ve always noticed the boys, too, and I couldn’t exactly turn it off. I just… didn’t think that’s what it was—at least for a while. I would always tell myself that I just thought this guy I couldn’t look away from was cool, or that I realized he was hot because I wanted to _look_ like him or something, but you and I both know that was just straight-up bullshit.**

**I did put the pieces together eventually, though, and… well, I might have had a bit of a freak-out at the time, but I’m cool with it now—as long as no one finds out. I think I was around 13 when I started to put the pieces together, but I was almost 16 when I finally _accepted_ it.**

**Some time passed, and at some point, I finally realized that I was in love with… well, with a very close friend of mine, which only added a brand new wave of panic to the whole thing, not to mention that it made my life about a thousand times more complicated. It got easier with time, being around him, but it still… well, it still hurts, knowing it’ll never happen.**

**Honestly, he’s the most amazing guy I know. No one knows about me, not even my family, and I’m absolutely _terrified_ of coming out, to _anyone,_ but… I could do it for him. If I knew we had a chance, I would do it for him. Fuck all the judgmental bigots in our school. Just fuck ‘em all.**

**But… well, we _don’t_ have a chance, so what would be the point, right?**

**My family also doesn't know. I think maybe my Mom would be okay with it, but I'm pretty sure my Dad wouldn't. I don't think he would throw me out or anything, but he would definitely have some pretty hurtful things to say about it. He would probably tell me it's just a phase, that I just need to get a freaking girlfriend and everything will be fine, because then I'll realize that I was just confused or some other ridiculous, biphobic bullshit. And I really don't want to go through that, you know?**

**How about you, Jacques? Tell me about this friend of yours. You really think you don’t have a chance with him?**

**I hope I'm not crossing any lines,**

**Blue**

It was surprisingly easy to press **Send** this time, even if there was a lot of… well, personal stuff in that email, stuff that _no one_ else knew about, and that he never thought he would tell anyone about, ever.

But now it was all out there, just sitting in Jacques’ email inbox, and Dean didn’t feel even a tiny hint of panic because of it.

No, he felt… he felt pretty good, actually.

Sure, he knew the fact that there was no freaking way for Jacques to figure out who he was helped with that, there was no denying it, but still, it did feel pretty damn awesome to finally _talk_ to someone about this. This was the kind of stuff that Dean had never even told Sammy about, and Sam was the person Dean trusted the most in the entire freaking world. Throughout the past few years, Dean had done everything in his power to hide who he truly was from the rest of the world, and as much as it pained him, that included his little brother.

But now someone else knew. Even if Jacques didn’t know exactly _who_ Dean was, he knew Dean's two most treasured secrets. He knew Dean wasn’t exactly straight, and he knew about Dean's unrequired feelings for Cas, knew about the struggles he’d gone through while he’d been figuring himself out. 

Of course, Dean had to edit out a few things, like the existence of Sam. He didn't want to tell Jacques that he had a little brother, because that was a tiny little detail that could potentially give away his identity. Sure, that definitely wouldn't be enough for Jacques to think of Dean _specifically_ , because there were a lot male students in Lawrence High who had younger brothers, but it was still enough to narrow it down a bit, to shorten the list of possibilities, and Dean definitely didn't want that.

Still, regardless of the fact that Dean had deliberately edited out a few details about his family, someone else _knew_ , and _fuck_ , the single thought of it was just so… _freeing._

Letting out a small sigh, Dean leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen of his laptop with a gentle smile playing on his lips.

Apparently, Dean really had made the right call, sending Jacques that first email. Sure, the two of them would probably never know the other’s identity, but if talking to Jacques always made Dean feel this good, then this really had been a pretty good idea.

And who knew? Maybe they would keep talking, exchanging emails and telling stories, and maybe someday, they might get comfortable enough with each other to actually share their real names. Maybe they could even become friends at the end of this whole thing.

And wouldn’t _that_ be a nice little plot twist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dean and Jacques get to know each other a little bit better, and things get complicated when _someone_ sees something they weren't supposed to see.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Welcome back! :D
> 
> Thank you so much for all the positive feedback I got on the last chapter. I hope you guys enjoy this one as well. :)

**Received: September 14 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: This turned out sadder than I expected. Sorry.**

**Hello, Blue,**

**Don’t worry—you’re definitely not crossing any lines. I did say I wanted to get to know you a bit better, and I really meant that. And if I’m asking you to tell me more about yourself, it’s only because I’m willing to share some more about myself as well, or else it just wouldn’t be fair. Really, I’m completely okay with it.**

**Oh, I’m absolutely certain of it. As much as I wish there was even the smallest chance that I could be wrong about this, as much as it _pains_ me every single time I so much as _think_ about it, that doesn’t make it any less true. There really is no chance that he and I could ever be together. It’s just never going to happen.**

**For one, I know for a fact that he’s straight—and this is no assumption. I’ve watched it for years—the way he gets around girls, the way he talks about them, the way he talks _to_ them. I’ve seen him with a few girlfriends, too, which was even more painful than I’d thought it would be. He’s never expressed even the slightest inclination toward male affection, throughout all the years that I’ve known him for. Really, not even a single _hint._ Not even _once_.**

**And you can tell me that maybe he’s faking it, that he could be hiding it, just like myself, or even that he might be interested in _both_ genders, just like yourself, but I know him. I know him better than I know anyone else, really. I believe I would be able to tell, if that were the case.**

**And secondly, even if there were the tiniest sliver of a chance that he _isn’t_ straight, he’s never expressed an interest in me at all—which is expected, if I’m being honest. There really is nothing special about me, while he is the most amazing, genuine, beautiful, captivating person I’ve ever met.**

**But how about a lighter topic, though? Because this whole message ended up being a bit of a bummer, and that definitely wasn’t my intention. Sorry about that.**

**What do you like to do for fun, Blue? Do you have any hobbies?**

**Sincerely,**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 15 th, 2019**

**Subject: Hobbies, huh?**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Well, I’m really sorry to hear that. I know how much it hurts—seeing someone every day, _yearning_ for them, but knowing for a fact that they don’t see you as anything more than a friend, even if you ever came clean with him, even if you ever told him how you really feel about him. It seems we really are on the same sad, pitiful little boat, huh?**

**Don’t sell yourself so short, though. I’m sure there’s plenty interesting about you, and you also sound pretty genuine to me—and pretty intelligent, too. Just sayin’.**

**Anyway, oh, hobbies? Well, I don’t think I do anything that would really qualify as a _hobby_ right now, but I used to love playing the guitar. No one knows about that except for my family, though. I took classes when I was little, and I used to practice pretty much every day. But at some point, I stopped taking classes, and then I kinda… well, over the years, I just gradually started practicing less and less often, and now I rarely even play anymore. Sure, sometimes I pull my old guitar out from the back of my closet and go a little crazy, but I’m super rusty, so nothing good really comes out of it. And I haven’t played for anyone in a long time. I don’t really know why. I still love music, but… I don’t know. I guess I just lost interest in it over time.**

**How about you, Jacques? Any secret hobbies that no one knows about?**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 17 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: This may sound a little weird.**

**Hello, Blue,**

**As a matter of fact, I do. This may sound a little silly, though, but I actually enjoy writing—fiction, mostly, although I’ve gotten a little adventurous at times and tried writing a few poems as well. It’s… calming to me, a way for me to get lost in a world of my own making. It’s a pretty good escape sometimes. I can forget about all my problems as soon as I start writing. I get lost in the words, the characters, the storylines. Suddenly, I can do anything. I can _be_ anything. It’s almost therapeutic.**

**No one’s actually read anything I’ve written, though—not even my closest friends. I’ve never even told anyone about my writing. It’s just… something I prefer to keep to myself, and I can’t really explain why. It’s just extremely personal.**

**Does that sound weird? Now that I’m rereading what I wrote, I think it does sound a little weird.**

**I hope it’s not _too_ weird, though.**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 18 th, 2019**

**Subject: Definitely not weird**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Actually, no, that doesn’t sound weird at all! Really, it doesn’t. Honestly, it actually sounds kinda awesome.**

**And I totally get it. I tried to write a few songs at some point, back when I was really into playing, when I was taking classes and everything, and I… well, I really liked them, back then. This might make me sound a little conceited, I’m aware, but I was _super_ proud of them. I thought they were pretty good.**

**But still, no matter how much I liked them, I never felt like playing them for anyone. So I just never did. It also felt… I’m not sure if I’d call it too personal, but I just didn’t want anyone to hear them. I didn’t feel comfortable with that, for some reason, but I can’t really explain _why_ exactly.**

**What do you write about, if you don’t mind me asking?**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 20 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Inspiration**

**Hello, Blue,**

**It really depends on what place my mind is currently at. At one point, I liked writing about adventures and fantasy, during my Lord of the Rings phase, and then also during my Game of Thrones phase. I tried a little bit of horror, too—there’s one story that I wrote for that genre that I’m particularly proud of. I read it again after a few years, and… well, I also don’t mean to sound conceited or full of myself, but I really do think it turned out pretty good. And it’s a lot more intense than I’d remembered. I even felt a chill in my stomach while reading a few parts of it, and I’m the one who _wrote_ it. That has to mean I did _something_ right, doesn’t it? I like to believe it does.**

**Lately, though, I’ve been writing quite a bit of romance. And yeah, I know exactly what that sounds like. I know what you’re thinking, _whom_ you’re thinking my inspiration has been coming from throughout the past couple of years. **

**And, well, you’re definitely not wrong. I’m not even going to try to deny it.**

**What about you, Blue? What inspired you to write _your_ songs?**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 21 st, 2019**

**Subject: Don’t you dare judge me**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Oh, no, you had a Game of Thrones phase too? I’m so sorry. XD**

**And there’s nothing wrong with that—getting inspired by what you feel for someone special. Been there, done that. I haven’t actually tried to write anything in a while, but I’ve certainly felt it, that spark, that _urge_ to just write it all down, to _let it out_ somehow, and it usually happens when I’m around him. I definitely can’t let any of it out by saying it, by telling someone about it, so I used to write it all down. I’ve scribbled down a few ideas, but just lyrics and verses. I’ve never really found it in myself to sit down and actually do something with it, to make a whole actual song out of it. I mean, what’s the point, right? It's not like I’ll ever play my stuff _to_ him, anyway.**

**Also, I… I’ve got a small confession to make.**

**Ever since I met him, I _have_ been listening to an awful lot of Ed Sheeran. And it’s all his fault. Definitely all him. I have absolutely no say in it whatsoever.**

**So you’re not allowed to judge me. Also, don’t even try to convince me that you don’t listen to disgusting love songs when you’re in a mood too, because I’m not buying it. Same tiny, sad little boat, remember?**

**You’re judging me, aren’t you?**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 22 nd, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Ed Sheeran shall not be judged here**

**Hello, Blue,**

**Yes, I did have a Game of Thrones phase, but it ended rather abruptly earlier this year, and you can probably imagine why. And no, I do _not_ want to talk about the last season. I really don’t. The disappointment still burns strong inside of me every time I remember it.**

**And I’m certainly not judging you, Blue. I also have my moments, and I have the habit of listening to music while I write (it really seems to help things flow), so more often than not, I do find myself blasting on some corny love songs as well, especially if I’m writing a romantic scene—and yes, Ed Sheeran does star quite a few of my playlists. It’s really nothing to be ashamed of.**

**But since you shared something so private with me, maybe I should share something private about myself, too—something that I never thought I'd ever feel comfortable enough to tell anyone.**

**At first, I didn’t write original stories. I actually started out writing fanfiction.**

**I’m not telling you what I used to write about, though. That’s where I have to draw the line.** **;)**

**Please don’t laugh at me,**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 24 th, 2019**

**Subject: Now I’m curious, and it’s your fault**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Oh, come on, so you tell me something like _that_ , and you’re not even gonna tell me what kind of fanfiction you used to write? Well, that’s just rude. Really, I’m offended. And I’m afraid the only way you can fix it is by telling me what you used to write about. Or else I’ll keep being offended. That’s just how it goes. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.**

**All jokes aside, though, don’t worry about me judging you at all. I used to read fanfiction myself a few years back. Never really wrote anything, because I just _can’t_ write (trust me), but there was a time when I would read it pretty often—almost every day, really. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.**

**Well, I definitely wouldn’t tell anyone at our school about that, but you get what I mean. All your secrets are safe here.**

**I’m betting you wrote about Game of Thrones, though. ;)**

**I’m right, aren’t I?**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 25 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Oh, I’m definitely not falling for that ;)**

**Hello, Blue,**

**Oh, I’m deeply sorry that I offended you, and I’ll be here to support you while you deal with the pain from that awful betrayal. If you cry, I have tissues. I don’t know how I could possibly get them to you, but I do have them here.**

**And I’m not telling you anything. ;P**

**Okay, maybe I can tell you _one_ thing.**

**I did _not_ write about Game of Thrones. I will admit, I _did_ read a lot of Game of Thrones fanfiction at one point, but I never wrote anything for it. That was a nice guess, I’ll give you that, but no, you are _not_ right. ;)**

**Also, I never actually posted anything anywhere, even if I was tempted. Again, no one’s ever read anything that I’ve written, be it fanfiction or my original stories and poems. The original stories and the poems always felt too personal, but the fanfiction… I don’t know. I never thought they were actually good enough, you know? They were just something I did for _me_ , to make myself feel better, to _distract_ myself. I just didn’t feel like sharing any of it with anyone, even if maybe there could have been someone out there who may have enjoyed reading it.**

**But now that we’re on the topic of guilty pleasures, how about you share one of yours, too? Not like playing the guitar, or like listening to the eventual Ed Sheeran, or even like how you’ve scribbled down a few ideas for song verses and lyrics—something _no one_ knows about, not even your family. Something you never planned on telling anyone, ever.**

**And remember: the more embarrassing, the better. ;)**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 25 th, 2019**

**Subject: Guilty pleasures, huh?**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Okay, you _did_ tell me some real personal stuff about you, so I guess I do owe you a secret too. You only get _one_ guilty pleasure, though. Fair is fair. ** **;)**

**And this one’s a pretty big secret, actually. Literally _no one_ knows about this one, and up until now, I was sure that no one ever would.**

**There’s this show that I’m just a tiny bit obsessed with, but everyone seems to think that it’s pretty silly and a little ridiculous, so I’ve never told anyone I even watch it. It’s called Dr. Sexy MD and I totally recommend checking it out. Seriously, it’s pretty freaking awesome, and all the drama really ropes you in.**

**Also, the main character is this super sexy doctor who wears cowboy boots all the time, so that’s a pretty nice bonus.**

**And yeah, I do realize how that sounds. I’m not even gonna bother trying to deny it. My slight obsession with Dr. Sexy may have been one of the signs that led me to realize I wasn't completely straight. I actually had a little bit of a crush on Dr. Sexy at one point. Honestly, that might still be going on. He’s just so freaking sexy, what am I supposed to do?**

**And you know all that fanfiction that I used to read? There’s just a tiny, _tiny_ little chance that some of it may have been about Dr. Sexy. ;)**

**Seriously, though, it’s a pretty cool show. You should definitely watch it, because then I’ll _finally_ have someone I can talk to about it. **

**And who knows? Maybe you’ll actually like it, and we’ll end up gushing over how sexy Dr. Sexy is together. ;P**

**I promise you, Jacques, you won’t be disappointed. ;)**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 26 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Is this okay?**

**Hello, Blue,**

**Okay, I’ll add ‘Dr. Sexy MD’ to my watchlist. I’m a little concerned (and confused, really, because why cowboy boots?), but I’ll trust you on this one.**

**Also, is he really called Dr. Sexy on the show? Like, do people actually address him by that name? Just… out of curiosity. Because that does seem a little confusing. The producers can’t possibly have made that his last name. Or at least I hope they didn’t.**

**On a completely unrelated note, though, can I… can I talk to you about something a little personal? Well, extremely personal, really. I do realize this isn’t our usual type of conversation topic, but I just need to get something off my chest, and I can’t really talk to anyone else about it. I mean, I do have my friends, and I know they would listen to whatever I had to say, but I just…**

**Well, to be perfectly frank, I don’t want to tell them about this.**

**Truth be told, I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider in my friends group when it comes to my family situation. All my friends have these perfect little families, and I… I just don’t, and whenever I need someone to talk to about it, I just don’t feel like laying all my problems on them, you know? It feels… wrong, somehow. I don’t want them worrying about me. I don’t want to burst their happy little family bubbles, or to have them looking down on me somehow, because my family isn’t anything like theirs. I don’t want them to feel bad for me, as stupid as that sounds.**

**So… can I just… let a few things out? I kinda just want to vent a little bit.**

**Is that okay? If it’s not, you can tell me. I won’t be upset. I promise.**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 27 th, 2019**

**Subject: This is a safe place**

**Of course you can vent, Jacques! I’m all ears here. Really, just lay it on me, and I’ll try to help in whatever way I can, even if it’s only by hearing what you have to say—or, well, reading it, I guess.**

**Seriously, we can talk about anything here, and that includes complicated family situations. This really is a safe place. I truly meant it when I said that.**

**Sincerely,**

**Blue**

**P.S.: Hey, cowboy boots are sexy! And of course that’s not his last name, it's just what his name tag says. They explain it in one of the first episodes. He’s Dr. Sexy because he’s just incredibly sexy, and everyone knows that. That’s the whole theme of the show! How sexy Dr. Sexy is! Trust me, you’ll get it when you watch it. And I’m not spoiling anything else. Seriously, you just gotta see it for yourself.**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 28 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Thank you**

**Hello, Blue,**

**Well, I’m really glad to hear that, and I want you to know that the same rule applies to you. If you ever need someone to talk to, if you ever need to open up, to _vent_ about something that’s bothering you—anything at all, really—this truly is a safe place.**

**Okay, so, first off, I should probably set the background a little. I know I’ve already told you that I have a complicated family situation, _and_ a complicated relationship with my parents, but I didn’t get into much detail about it, and… well, it’s kind of necessary that I do it now, if I want you to really understand the situation I’m in right now.**

**I’ve never had a good relationship with my mother. Her pregnancy was an accident, and she never even _wanted_ a child, so she didn’t want anything to do with me since the day I was born—probably even before that, really. The few times that I actually met her throughout my life (which really weren’t that many to begin with), she’s treated me with nothing more than utter indifference and disdain. Now, she’s not exactly a… warm, cheerful person, and as far as I can tell, she basically looks down on everyone she meets, but that seems to get even worse whenever I’m around, like she’s just… constantly annoyed by my presence. Like I’m just some big disappointment that still haunts her up to this day. Something that she wishes had never happened to her.**

**There was a time I cared a lot more about it, though. Don’t get me wrong—I do wish things were different, that _she_ were different, but she’s been that way all my life, and I guess… I guess I got used to it over the years. But I mean, what other option did I have?**

**So now that you’ve a gotten tiny glimpse at my history with her, maybe you can imagine how surprised I was when my mother called me last night to invite to go all the way to freaking Pontiac, Illinois to spend Christmas with her. In fact, I was so utterly stunned when the words came out of her mouth that I don’t even remember what the hell I said to her in response. I’m pretty sure it was something around the lines of, “I’ll think about it,” or maybe, “I’ll get back to you on that,” but I truly _cannot_ recall the exact words I used.**

**Also, it’s been an entire day since I talked to her, and I still don’t know how to feel about it, let alone what to _do._**

**I’m so sorry for just laying so much on you like this, but I really needed to talk to someone about it. I’m just so lost on what to do, what to _think._**

**I really hope _I’m_ not crossing a line here,**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: September 29 th, 2019**

**Subject: I’m really sorry if this sounds insensitive**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Okay, I… I’m not really sure what to say to that, so I’m not even gonna pretend that I do. Honestly, it’s just hard for me to put myself in your place, to try to imagine how you’re feeling right now. I’m pretty awful at that, if I’m being honest with you.**

**Shit, I hate how that came out. I’m really sorry if I sound like an insensitive jerk right now.**

**But I think the question you should really be asking yourself right now is: What do you _want_ to do? Do you want to travel to Illinois and see her? Try to figure out why exactly she’s reaching out to you now? Or would you rather keep your distance from her, because of how much she hurt you in the past? I feel like you should only go if you actually _want_ to, you know? And not because you feel like you _have_ to.**

**So… what do you _want_ to do, Jacques?**

**Again, I’m really sorry if this sounds insensitive or something, or if it’s just downright unhelpful, but I’m really awful at this stuff—you know, giving advice and whatnot.**

**I’m really sorry that I can’t do more to help,**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: September 30 th, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Please don’t apologize**

**Hello, Blue,**

**There’s really no need to apologize. I definitely hadn’t expected you to tell me what to do, or to give me some miracle suggestion that would suddenly send all my confusion away and magically solve all my problems. Seriously, please don’t apologize. And you actually did help me put some things into perspective. You’re absolutely right—I should only do this if I actually want to, and not because I feel like I… like I owe it to her or something, you know? Because I feel like I _have_ to give her another chance.**

**But that’s the thing—I don’t know I want. So… I guess I have a lot of thinking to do. It’s probably gonna be a while until I actually make a decision on this, but Christmas is still a few months away, so at least I do have some time to think.**

**Thank you, Blue. For, you know, listening. And for helping me realize that what really matters here is… well, what _I_ want.**

**Sincerely,**

**Jacques**

**PS.: I finally watched Dr. Sexy MD last night… and I’m not sure I understand the premise of that show. The amount of times someone from the hospital staff hooks up in a janitor’s closet or examination room is downright unsanitary. I feel like this show is setting a pretty bad example.**

Dean smiled at Jacques’ latest reply, leaning back in his chair and getting a bit more comfortable in his seat. He chanced another glance around, making sure that there wasn’t anyone close enough to take a peek at his screen for the fifth time since he’d opened up his email, and he only returned his eyes to the screen once he was satisfied that all the other students currently making use of the school library were at least ten feet away, which meant he should be safe.

He didn’t start typing up a reply right away, though, because he really needed to think about this one. Jacques had really opened up to him in his last couple emails, and even if he’d said that he wasn’t expecting some kind of magical solution from Dean, some kind of miracle suggestion or answer that would actually help him make his decision, even if it did sound like Jacques was actually done with that conversation, Dean still felt like he needed to put a little more thought into his next reply.

And who knew? Maybe inspiration would eventually hit him, if he waited a few more hours to reply. Maybe he _could_ think of something that actually turned out to be helpful to Jacques.

So Dean clicked out of the tab where he currently had Blue’s email account open and resumed working on the paper he’d originally come to the library to write. He had a whole free period ahead of him and nothing else better to do, so he might as well just work on Ms. MacLeod’s latest history assignment. The more work he put into it now, the less time he would need to invest in it later at home, and that sounded pretty damn good to him.

He spent the next twenty minutes reading up on the American Civil War, and throughout that short period of time, the library gradually filled up with students who’d chosen to spend their free periods either studying or working on some sort of assignment. The library had eight working computers that the students could use for that very purpose, including the one Dean was currently using to work on his own history paper, and it didn’t take long until all of them were taken.

Dean barely even noticed it, though. He was pretty focused on what he was reading, writing a bunch of notes down whenever he came across something that he found important or relevant as he struggled to figure out how exactly he was supposed to even _start_ this assignment. Ms. MacLeod had warned them that she didn’t want any cliché, unoriginal papers, that she wanted them to really dig in and show her that they truly understood everything they wrote, and she wasn’t exactly generous when she was grading papers, so Dean really had to do his best here. This thing was worth 20% of his freaking grade in the class, anyway, so he didn’t exactly have a choice.

In fact, he was _so_ concentrated that he actually jumped a little in surprise when a familiar—and very unwelcome—voice suddenly pulled him back to reality and effectively interrupted his latest thought process.

“Hey, you gonna be long there, Winchester?”

Dean rolled his eyes before raising his head, not even bothering to hide his annoyance while he did it, only to find Gabriel Speight standing just beside the desk he was currently using.

When Gabriel didn’t immediately say anything else, Dean raised his eyebrows in a silent question, wordlessly asking him to elaborate.

“I gotta work on a paper,” the shorter boy explained.

Dean glanced to his left, checking the other computers, only to find that yep, they were all still taken.

“Well, you really should have gotten here earlier then, huh?” Dean replied with a small shrug, before turning back to his research.

But apparently, Gabriel just wasn’t going to give up that easily.

“Yeah, well, I was busy with… something—you know, a… personal project.”

Dean had no idea what the hell _that_ meant, but he also had absolutely _no_ desire to find out. Whatever project Gabriel was working on, it probably had something to do with one of his pranks, and the less Dean knew about it, the better. He _really_ didn’t want to get into any trouble, thank you very much.

When Dean offered no response, Gabriel tried again, “Can you just, like, help out a pal? I don’t wanna have to work on this tonight. I’ve got other things to do.”

Dean lifted his head again, and this time, he directed a full-on glare in the shorter boy’s direction, raising his eyebrows and giving him an utterly unimpressed look, as if silently saying, _’Really?’_

But Gabriel didn’t move. No, instead, he glared right back, scowling at Dean like somehow, _he_ was the one in the wrong here. “You know, I bet you’re not even doing any schoolwork on there. You’re just acting like an asshole because you want to screw me over.”

Yeah, because saying shit like _that_ would definitely convince Dean to help him. Excellent play there, Gabriel.

Dean shook his head, letting out a small, incredulous scoff as he turned back to the screen. “I’ll be done when I’m done, Speight. And you’re definitely not making me go any faster.”

And _that_ was finally enough to make the shorter boy give up. He huffed, grumbling a low, clearly-unhappy, “Yeah, thanks for nothing,” before he finally walked off, disappearing amongst the countless bookshelves in the back of the room, probably intending to look for something that could help him with whatever assignment he wanted to work on.

And once he was finally gone and out of sight, Dean rolled his eyes one last time before he went back to working on his own paper, resuming his reading and trying to return to his previous line of thought.

He wasn’t alone for long, though, because only a couple minutes after Speight walked off into the depths of the library and finally left him alone, someone _else_ pulled up a chair from one of the nearby study tables and plopped down unceremoniously right beside Dean.

“Dude, I’ve got _the_ most shocking news to tell you. Trust me, it’s big. Like, real fucking _enormous.”_

Dean sighed, leaning back in his chair again and turning his head so he could focus his eyes on a wide-eyed, way-too-excited Jo Harvelle. “You know, I just don’t get it. You _really_ don’t seem like the type to like gossip so much. How the hell did we get here?”

Jo simply rolled her eyes at him, before landing a quick, sharp punch to his shoulder.

_Ouch._

“Hey!”

“Shh!” one of the kids sitting at one of the study tables a few feet away let out, glaring in their direction for a moment, before he turned his attention back to all the notes and books currently spread out on the table right in front of him.

Dean returned the glare for just a second, before he turned back around to face Jo. He was very mindful of the volume of his voice when he whispered, “See what you did?”

She rolled her eyes again. “It’s not _gossip,”_ she whispered back. “Do you know Hannah Johnson?”

Dean sighed again. That already sounded an awful lot like gossip, though he refrained from pointing that out—or even rolling his eyes like he wanted to. He really didn’t want to get punched again. “Yeah,” he said, relenting, because apparently, he had no other choice but to hear whatever it was that Jo wanted to tell him.

Jo leaned in closer to Dean, lowering her voice even more, so much that her next words were barely even audible.

“Rumor has it that she has a thing for Cas.”

Dean almost, _almost_ fell out of his freaking chair when he heard that, but fortunately, he was fast enough to hold on to the desk right in front of him and regain his balance just before he ended up sprawled out on the floor and made a fool of himself right then and there, in the middle of the freaking school library.

And once _that_ tiny little crisis was averted, Dean turned his wide, shocked eyes to Jo. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that he managed to let out was a weak, choked, “What?”

“Hannah Johnson has the hots for Cas!” Jo repeated, a big, wide smile spreading onto her lips. She looked _way_ too excited about that, but at least it didn’t seem like she’d noticed just how freaking _stunned_ Dean was.

Dean blinked, then swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. _“Our_ Cas?”

Jo gave him a weird look. “Yeah! Do you _know_ another Cas?”

 _No, but all of a sudden, I really wish I did,_ he thought bitterly.

“How the hell do you even know that?” he asked. “I’m guessing she didn’t just post _that_ on Lawrence High Secrets.”

Jo shook her head. “No, of course not. I was in the girl’s bathroom earlier, and I heard Hannah talking to her friends about it. She says she’s gonna go for it!”

Dean felt his stomach sink all the way down to the freaking floor. “Go for it?”

“Yeah! You know—make a move on him, ask him out. She’s totally going for it!”

Oh, wow, that was…

Real fucking _awful._

But of course, he couldn’t tell Jo that.

“Well, that’s… that’s great,” he said, and he was pretty proud of how steady his voice sounded as he did it. He did stutter a little bit while saying it, true, but he was pretty sure he could just pass that off as a result of his surprise. Jo didn’t seem confused by it, so Dean figured he was in the clear. “Really, that’s pretty great. Good for him.”

It really seemed like Jo hadn’t noticed anything strange about his reaction, because all she did was smile again—big and bright, like she truly was happy for Cas. “Right? Our little Cassie is growing up!”

Dean swallowed drily again. “Does Hannah even know Cas?” he asked, frowning. “I mean, I’ve never seen them talking before. Like, ever.”

Jo nodded. “Yeah, they have French and biology together. I’m pretty sure they’re lab partners in biology, so they’ve definitely talked before.”

Oh, wow. Wasn’t that just absolutely _wonderful._

“Anyway, I just needed to tell _someone—_ well, someone who wasn’t Cas. I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.” The blonde turned her head, eyes landing on Dean’s by now completely abandoned research. “What’re you working on? Another history thing?”

Dean nodded—albeit slowly, stiffly. He was struggling to keep up with the abrupt subject change. His mind was still spinning, still reeling from what Jo had just told him, and he just couldn’t really focus on anything else right now—including his damn history paper.

“Yeah, I… I was trying to get some stuff done in advance, just so I wouldn’t have to work on it later, but I’m done with it for now.” He pressed a couple keys to lock the computer, completely out of habit and without really thinking about it, not even bothering to close all the research tabs he’d opened up. The next person who used that computer could deal with that.

He pushed his chair backwards without a thought, and then the next thing he knew was that he’d gotten to his feet and started gathering up his stuff, shoving his pencil case and the notebook he’d been using to take notes into his bag. His body was moving, doing all those things, but his mind wasn’t really registering any of it. He just…

Fuck, he just had to get out of that damn library.

“Where are you going?” Jo asked, frowning up at him. She looked confused, but he really couldn't blame her for it.

“I just remembered I forgot something in my car this morning. I gotta go get it.” That was a pretty damn awful, half-assed excuse, and Dean knew that, but it was also all that he could come up with right now.

Jo gave him a weird look. It was clear that she wasn’t buying what he was selling, but thankfully, she chose to let it go this time, just like she’d done that day in the cafeteria, when they’d been talking about Aaron and Charlie and those stupid, homophobic jerks, and Dean had pretty much just spaced out on his friends.

“Alright,” she said, giving him a small nod and a pointed look. “You go do that, then.” There was a clear hint of sarcasm to her tone, which made it even more obvious that she knew he was lying, but Dean chose to ignore it.

Instead of replying, Dean simply threw his bag over his shoulder and gave her a small, sharp nod before spinning on his heels and walking away without a single glance behind, making a beeline for the exit as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run.

When he was finally out of the library, though, Dean realized that he didn’t exactly have a destination in mind, so he ended up simply wandering down a few empty hallways, clutching the strap of his bag a little too tightly in his fist as he tried to decide where the hell he could go to clear his head.

Eventually, Dean found himself slipping inside a fairly unused bathroom near the science labs, which was blessedly empty when he walked in. He stalked over to the sinks and dropped his bag on the floor, opening up a faucet and throwing some water on his face, and as the small, cold droplets slid over his skin, leaving wet, glistening trails on his cheeks, Dean leaned forward, holding on to the porcelain sink with both of his hands as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Damn it. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He had no _right_ to feel like this. He and Cas weren’t dating. They didn’t even have a fucking _chance_ of _ever_ getting together, of ever being more than friends, so why did this bother Dean so much? Cas was _straight_ , for fuck’s sake, and he was _eighteen_ years old. Of course this was bound to happen at some point—Dean had always known that. Even if his best friend had never seemed particularly interested in dating at all, even if he’d never actually had a girlfriend, _of course_ a nice, smart girl would show interest in Cas at some point. Dean really couldn’t be mad at Hannah, and he certainly didn’t blame her for it. Cas was smart, and funny, not to mention absolutely freaking _gorgeous._ It truly was a wonder that it’d taken this long for someone to notice that.

So, yeah, Dean definitely shouldn’t be freaking out like this. No, he should be _happy_ for his friend, and not feel sick to his stomach, like he could just throw up right here and now.

But just thinking about Cas and Hannah together, of having to watch them act like a freaking couple every single day for the rest of the freaking school year sounded like a true _nightmare._ Dean wasn’t even sure that he could actually do it, and he hated himself for it. He hated to think that maybe this might end up driving them apart, that Dean might need to distance himself from Cas in order not to get hurt. The single thought of it was pretty much unbearable.

But Hannah hadn’t even _talked_ to Cas yet. And, well, come to think of it, Dean didn’t even know if Cas liked Hannah as well, if he would actually say yes to going out with her. Maybe he didn’t like her at all, and he would say no. Maybe Dean was here, freaking out in a deserted bathroom during his free period on a Monday morning for absolutely no reason at all.

Yeah, maybe Cas and Hannah _wouldn’t_ become a thing. Maybe Dean was making way too big a deal out of this.

Dean really liked the sound of that.

Those thoughts were enough to calm him down a bit, to make him feel well enough to move again. He splashed some more water on his face just because he felt like it, then shook himself out of whatever trance he’d fallen into. He should probably get going, anyway—his free period was almost over, and he still needed to stop by his locker to get the stuff he needed for his next class.

Just as that thought registered in his mind, the bell rang, signaling the end of the current period, and in no time at all, the sound of loud, animated chatter filled the air outside the bathroom as a familiar sea of students started to fill the hallways, pouring out of the classrooms in large groups and taking full of advantage of the fact that they were finally allowed to _talk_ again.

Dean decided to linger in that bathroom for a couple more minutes, though, not really feeling like leaving just yet. Instead, he just stayed right where he was, gripping the porcelain sink a bit too tightly with both of his hands and pulling in slow, rhythmic breaths, keeping his head bowed forward and his eyes closed as he finally felt himself calm down fully—or at least enough to sit through his next class without drawing any odd, curious looks.

“Hey, man, are you okay?”

Dean started, jumping a little in surprise, then quickly turned in the direction that voice had come from, only to find Michael Milton, Anna Milton’s twin brother and captain of the football team, standing by the door that led out of the bathroom and onto the packed hallway. He was gripping the strap of his backpack as he stared at Dean with a pair of wide, confused brown eyes, and there was a heavy frown in his brows. He seemed… concerned, to say the least.

Briefly, Dean wondered how long he’d been standing there. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even heard the guy come in at all.

Dean turned back around, giving himself a once-over in the mirror. His hair was a little messy from when he’d run his hand through it at some point, spiky and a little damp, standing up oddly in a few places. His face was still a little wet, but at least it didn’t look like he’d been crying—his forehead and nose were also glistening slightly from when he’d splashed some water on his face earlier, and his eyes weren’t red at all, so at least Michael probably wouldn’t think that he’d been hiding in here bawling or something.

Still, he shook his head, mentally cursing himself for not leaving this bathroom as soon as the bell rang, before he finally turned to grab a few paper towels so he could wipe the remaining water off his face.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, crumpling up all the paper towels he’d used into a ball and tossing the whole thing into a nearby trash can.

But for some freaking reason that Dean really couldn’t fathom, once he picked his bag back up from the floor and threw it over his shoulder, ready to just run out of that bathroom before someone _else_ showed up and found him like this, he realized that Michael hadn’t yet moved from his spot by the door, and that the concerned look he’d been wearing earlier hadn’t yet faded from his face.

In fact, he was eyeing Dean weirdly—carefully, curiously, like he was… considering him somehow, weighing Dean’s words in his head, like he was trying to decide if he believed them or not.

“Are you sure?” the jock finally asked, and yeah, that was definitely a hint of concern that Dean could hear in his voice.

Dean had no fucking idea why, though. They weren’t friends—they weren’t even acquaintances, really. They had English together, true, but that was it. They’d never even talked before, as far as Dean remembered.

Of course, Michael _may_ have been one of the guys Dean had found himself staring at for a bit too long when they passed each other in the halls, that he’d caught himself daydreaming about a handful of times, back when he’d still been figuring himself out. Michael was pretty handsome, with sharp features, incredibly white teeth, dark brown hair and equally dark eyes, and, well, being the captain of the football team, he definitely had an impressively built body. He basically had half of the female population of the school fawning over him, and at some point, Dean might have had a bit of a crush on the guy as well.

But then sometime during Freshman year, Cas had moved into town, and… well, the rest was history.

Now, don’t get him wrong—Dean could still appreciate Michael’s looks, or his strong, athletic build. He was only human, after all, and the guy was definitely still pretty freaking handsome and attractive, but Dean no longer acted like a big, stammering idiot around him, basically making a fool of himself whenever Michael was in the vicinity, so it was pretty safe to say that Dean was completely over that crush now.

But just because Dean may or may not have daydreamed about being alone with the guy in the locker room right after a long, particularly strenuous and emotion-filled game—do _not_ look at him like that—that didn’t mean that he’d ever _talked_ to Michael before—quite the contrary, actually.

So, yeah, Dean had no idea why the guy was being so friendly right now. Truth be told, he was a bit of a dick to all the people who weren’t part of the football team, or cheerleaders. Or pretty girls who batted their eyes at him whenever he walked by.

“What?” Dean couldn’t help but ask, staring dumbly at the jock.

Michael simply shrugged. “Well, you just… you don’t look so good.”

Okay, what the fuck?

Dean shook his head, gripping the strap of his own bag a bit more tightly than strictly necessary. “It’s nothing,” he insisted, and if his voice came out a bit sharper than he’d meant it to, well, he definitely thought he was entitled. The last thing he felt like doing right now was _talking_ about his problems, and even if he wanted to talk, Michael was definitely not his first option for that. He wasn’t even his _seventh_ option. Really, he wasn’t even on the freaking _list._

Michael was _still_ just staring at him, though, so Dean just shook his head again and stepped forward, heading for the door. Michael stepped out of the way without a word, but Dean could still feel the guy’s eyes following him as he reached for the door and ducked out of the bathroom.

Freaking weirdo.

As soon as he was out of that bathroom, Dean let out a big, relieved breath, shaking his head and forcing himself to focus on where he was going, on what was really happening around him, and not on what had driven him to hide out in that bathroom in the first place.

Regardless of the whole thing with Michael, Dean had to admit that he _was_ feeling a bit better than he had when he’d left the library earlier. Sure, there was still a heavy weight in his gut, like there was a big metal anvil sitting right in his freaking stomach, constantly pulling him down, but then he recalled the thoughts that had helped him calm down earlier. He reminded himself that maybe he’d had no real reason to freak out like that, because he didn’t know if Cas even _liked_ Hannah, so maybe he wouldn’t actually agree to go on a date with her.

The single thought of it was already enough to make that weight feel lighter, less insistent and bothersome, easier to ignore. It had a small, flickering flame of hope coming to life inside Dean's chest, and he absolutely _refused_ to let it die.

And if he held on to that small, feeble spark of hope a bit more tightly than he probably should, well, no one needed to know about it.

***~*~*~*~***

“No!” Ms. Rosen—or Becky, as she insisted all her students called her—stood up from her chair, shaking her head and waving her arms frantically in the air, signaling for all the actors on stage to stop what they were doing. “No, no, no! _No!”_

The music cut off abruptly, and all the students currently moving around on the stage froze up instantly—Dean included. He’d been in the middle of a dance, though, and he had to take a few extra steps when he came to such an abrupt stop and lost his balance, but he found his footing again soon enough. And once he was sure he wouldn’t just fall on his freaking face in front of the entire theater club, Dean finally raised his head so he could stare at their drama teacher, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Becky was standing on the third row of seats, a very unhappy scowl on her face, her hands resting on her hips.

“I need to _feel_ it, guys!” She raised her hands again, gesturing wildly. “The _energy_ coming off of the stage in waves, entrancing and _magical,_ hypnotizing the audience, immersing them in the beauty of what we’ve constructed here, their attention completely enraptured by music and lights and colors _._ ” Becky’s eyes lit up as she talked, like she was actually _seeing_ all the things she was describing. She even hugged her hands close to her chest, just to make her speech even more dramatic. “But, frankly, all I’m feeling is disappointment. I don’t feel the magic. I’m feeling nothing _. Nothing!”_

That kind of speech certainly wasn’t new to Dean. Every year, Becky had several mental breakdowns during the first few months of production, because things weren’t going the way she’d envisioned, or because she didn’t think everyone was giving it their very best. Most of the time, she was just overreacting, because she expected everything to be perfect from the very start and for the dialogue to flow easily between the actors right away, when it normally took a while for the actors to get used to their characters and for them to really grow to understand the story.

But this time, Dean had to admit that she did have a point. This really was going _horribly._

However, it might be good to remember that this _was_ the first time all of them were doing a musical, so maybe it was understandable that it was taking them a little longer than usual to get used to their characters this time around, to their dynamics. Everything about this was new.

But, well, clearly Becky wasn’t patient enough for that.

“Everyone’s just… lost,” Becky continued, shaking her head. “Really, you look like a bunch of headless chickens running around up there, like you have no idea what to do with yourselves. It’s madness! And don’t even get me _started_ on the two lovebirds up there by the piano! Yeah, _you!”_

Everyone turned their heads, following the teacher’s gaze, only to watch Balthazar Roché and Bela Talbot finally break apart. The two had been making out throughout most of today's rehearsal, and apparently, they hadn’t even bothered to stop when Becky had started ranting—but, well, that wasn’t exactly surprising. They really had no freaking shame. That wasn’t anything new, either.

“How about you two _wait_ until you’re alone before you get back to your tonsil hockey? How about that, huh? Because really, no one needs to see _that.”_

Neither one of them looked particularly ashamed, but they did nod, straightening themselves up a bit where they were both sitting by the piano.

Becky let out a long, suffering sigh. She held out her hands in front of her chest, looking like she was trying to calm herself down, to get all her rampaging emotions back under control. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. We have,” She glanced down at her watch, “Seventeen more minutes to turn this day into, well, less of a disaster. Now,” She clapped her hands together once. The sound seemed overly loud as it echoed off the padded walls of the big, empty auditorium, “Back to your places, people. From the top! And Mr. Speight, please, get those feathers _off_ of your fedora. You look like a dancing peacock. Why are you even _wearing_ that fedora? The costumes aren’t ready yet, so we don’t even _have_ one here. Where did you even get that? You know what? Don’t answer that. I don’t wanna know.”

The rest of the rehearsal went just as badly, and by the end of it, Becky was suspiciously close to tears, and she kept mumbling to herself about how she’d given up a job in Broadway for this, which, well, Dean really hoped wasn’t true. Everyone was feeling pretty down, too, most likely disappointed in themselves, but Dean knew they would get it eventually. They just needed a little more time and practice.

Or at least he hoped so, anyway.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Becky so upset,” Cas commented as they walked out of the auditorium after the rehearsal was over, making their way through the empty school hallways side by side, headed for the parking lot.

Jo was also part of the theater club, and Dean normally drove both her and Cas home after rehearsals, but she’d told Dean that she didn’t need a ride today because she wasn’t going home right now, so it was just Dean and Cas today.

It definitely wasn’t the first time he and Cas drove together in his car, just the two of them, but just like every time Dean found himself alone with his best friend, he _still_ felt a little excited flutter in his stomach, still felt a weird, tingly anticipation rising inside of him.

Fuck, he really had it bad, didn’t he?

“Yeah,” Dean replied, shaking himself out of his thoughts. “But, I mean, even if she _was_ exaggerating a little bit, I do think she has a point. The whole thing _is_ kind of a disaster right now.”

“Well, she always does this,” Cas shrugged. “Every year is the same thing. She has a bunch of mental breakdowns, almost cries a couple of times, and then by the time we start getting close to Christmas break, everything starts to fall into place. It’ll be fine.”

Dean really wished he shared Cas’ confidence.

“Yeah, I hope you’re right,” Dean muttered.

Cas didn’t offer him any kind of response to that, so they just kept walking in silence for a while, simply wandering down a few more hallways until they finally found themselves stepping through the big red doors that led out to the school parking lot. Baby was waiting for them right by the exit, beautiful and shiny, even in such a gray, gloomy day.

“Have you talked to Hannah lately?”

The words were out of his mouth before Dean even realized they’d been dangling from the tip of his tongue, though considering Jo’s words from this morning had been looming in the back of his mind the entire time they’d been walking through the school, maybe that shouldn’t have been much of a surprise.

Cas frowned, turning his head to give Dean a confused look. “Hannah Johnson?”

Dean nodded—tightly, stiffly. “Yeah.”

Cas still seemed pretty confused, of course, because to him, that question had probably come out of freaking _nowhere_ , but he still shook his head in a negative response. “Not really,” he said. “I mean, I have French with her, but I don’t think I’ve ever really interacted with her in that class. I’ve only ever talked to her in biology—she is my lab partner, after all—but other than that, no. I haven’t really talked to her lately—or, well, ever.”

Dean nodded again—more slowly this time, more carefully. So Hannah hadn’t made her move yet, then. Dean wasn’t really sure how he should feel about that. On one hand, he was relieved, for obvious reasons—namely, that Cas was still single, not to mention completely oblivious to Hannah’s intentions.

But on the _other_ hand, the fact that Hannah asking Cas out was still a possibility, the _uncertainty_ that surrounded this whole situation still loomed over Dean’s head like a dark cloud, like the foretelling of a thunderstorm that was yet to come. He had no idea what Cas would say to Hannah, and that doubt was driving Dean absolutely _insane._

“Why do you ask?” Cas inquired when Dean didn’t offer an explanation.

Dean shrugged. “No reason,” he replied, doing his best to sound neutral, unbothered, schooling his features into a calm, neutral mask. “Just… what do you think of her?”

Cas’ frown deepened a little, and he gave Dean a weird look. “What do you mean?”

They’d already reached the Impala by that point, but since Dean made no move to unlock the car, they were both just standing on the empty space right beside her, in the middle of the deserted parking lot.

His next words got stuck on the way out, sticking to the walls of his throat, feeling awfully sour on his tongue, but eventually, Dean somehow managed to push them past his lips.

“Well, she’s pretty cute. She's got _really_ nice eyes, and… I hear she’s pretty smart, too.”

Something changed in Cas’ expression as soon as those words were out of Dean’s mouth. The shift was pretty subtle, and it might have gone unnoticed by someone who didn’t know Cas very well, but Dean still caught it. All of a sudden, he didn’t look confused anymore—no, suddenly, there was a weird, faraway look in his eyes, like Dean had caught him completely off-guard, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to react to what he’d just heard. His shoulders looked a lot more tense and stiff than they’d been only a second prior, and he swallowed drily, as if struggling to figure out how he wanted to respond, like he was weighing his next words extra carefully in his mind.

And Dean had no idea what to make of that reaction. Cas looked truly stunned, completely lost on what to say, like Dean really had just pulled the floor out from under his feet. But why would he—

It was only then that Dean realized how exactly his words must have sounded to Cas—like _he_ was interested in Hannah somehow, like _he_ found her cute and smart, like _he_ probably intended to ask her out. And, well, judging by his reaction, Cas was not really happy about that.

Could Cas be… jealous? Fuck, he was, wasn’t he? It definitely looked like he was a little bit jealous, or maybe just uncomfortable. Did this mean that he liked Hannah?

Fuck, it did, didn’t it?

Damn it.

_Damn it._

So much for having hope.

Finally, after a long, tense moment passed between them, Cas finally nodded—although the movement seemed strained, forced. He still looked pretty tense.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” he agreed, and his voice sounded lower, tighter than before. He probably didn’t want Dean to know that he liked Hannah. Cas had always been a little weird about this kind of stuff. He listened whenever Dean and Benny talked about girls, and sometimes he even chipped in a little, offering up his own comments, but it was clear that he didn’t really like talking about it.

Dean desperately searched his brain for something to say, looking for the right words to try and fix this, to send that hard, stormy look away from Cas’ eyes, but his mind came up blank. He was overly aware of what this looked like, and he definitely didn’t want Cas to think that _he_ was the one crushing on Hannah Johnson, but an ugly, selfish part of him didn’t want to correct that little misunderstanding, didn’t want to tell Cas that he _wasn’t_ into Hannah, because if Cas thought Dean liked her, then maybe he would say no to going out with her, right?

No, he couldn’t do that, and he felt pretty freaking angry at himself for even _considering_ that possibility, however briefly, because what kind of best friend _was_ he? Because what if Cas could actually be happy with Hannah? Would Dean really stoop so low, getting in the way of Cas’ happiness for his own selfish reasons?

No, that wasn’t him. He just wasn’t that person. He couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ do that. He cared too much about Cas. Dean wanted him to be happy, he really did.

Even if he wouldn’t be the one to make that happen.

“Are you okay, Dean?”

Cas’ voice suddenly snapped Dean out of his own thoughts, and he blinked at his best friend, finding a pair of big, worried blue eyes fixed on his face—searching for something on it, it looked like.

Dean felt his throat run a little dry.

“Yeah,” he croaked out, giving a small, weak nod. “Why?”

Cas shrugged, though the intensity of his gaze didn’t waver even in the slightest. “I don’t know,” he replied, still eyeing Dean carefully, curiously, a pinch visible between his furrowed brows. “You’ve been acting a bit… _weird_ lately. You seem awfully distracted, and I have no idea why.”

Dean licked his dry lips, then shrugged. Damn it. He’d missed his chance, hadn’t he? He couldn’t just turn the conversation back around and start talking about Hannah again without it looking like he actually had a reason behind it. That would definitely seem suspicious, and it might lead Cas to asking questions that Dean really couldn't answer—like why the hell Dean had even brought up Hannah in the first place, why he seemed to fixated on her all of a sudden. Dean definitely didn’t want to tell Cas about what Jo had heard in the girls’ bathroom this morning. He didn’t think he could let the words out, even if he tried.

“I’m not acting weird,” he argued weakly.

“Yes, you are,” Cas insisted, nodding his head. He tilted his head a bit to the side in that adorable way he did whenever he was confused, or when he was thinking really hard about something. His blue eyes were even more piercing than they’d been before, sharper, more focused. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

_Oh, Cas, you have no freaking idea how many things I want to tell you. Fuck, how I wish I **could** tell you—about all of it._

_But I can’t._

Dean shrugged, trying to seem unbothered, nonchalant, and just a tiny bit confused. “No,” he replied amidst an awkward, nervous laugh. It sounded forced even to his own ears.

It was clear that Cas wasn’t falling for it, that he wasn’t buying what Dean was selling, although that really wasn’t too much of a surprise. Dean knew he was doing a pretty poor job of hiding the whirlwind of emotions that were currently raging up a storm inside of him.

Cas’ frown deepened, and the look in his eyes grew even sharper, more suspicious and focused. He knew Dean _way_ too well, and frankly, that was becoming a bit of a problem lately, with how much Dean was keeping from the guy. There really was no point in trying to lie to him.

But, well, it wasn’t like Dean had a freaking choice here. He couldn’t possibly tell Cas the freaking _truth._

“Really, Cas, I’m okay. It’s…” He shook his head, shrugging—weakly, halfheartedly. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He realized that denying it, that trying to convince Cas that there _wasn’t_ anything bothering him wouldn’t get him anywhere, so he decided to go with another strategy here—vaguely _confirming_ that there was something wrong, but trying to convince Cas that it wasn’t a big deal, while also making it clear that he really didn’t want to talk about it.

“It certainly doesn’t look like nothing,” Cas pointed out, but his voice was quieter, gentler, a lot less demanding than it’d been before. He’d definitely picked up on what Dean was trying to do here.

Dean’s jaw tightened, and he swallowed drily before he nodded, letting out a low, croaky, “Yeah, I know.”

It definitely looked like Cas wanted to argue, like he wanted to press on a little more, to keep trying to get his friend to open up to him—Dean could see it in his face, in the obvious determination that flashed back at him in those beautiful blue eyes. Dean even felt himself tense up a little at the sight of it, preparing himself for whatever was about to happen, desperately trying to figure out how exactly he might be able to get out of this conversation unscathed, with his secrets still intact.

But fortunately, there was no need for any of that.

In the end, Cas relented. He pressed his lips together unhappily for a moment, before he finally let out a big, heavy sigh, shoulders sagging heavily at his sides just as his features smoothed out. He looked a little annoyed, his frustration obvious in his features, but fortunately, he didn’t try again.

No, instead, he simply nodded—slowly, stiffly, which told Dean he really wasn’t happy about just letting the matter go so easily. “Okay,” he said, voice sounding low, and a little strained. “Okay.”

The drive to Cas’ house was a bit of a nightmare—awkward as hell, the air inside the car so freaking tense that you could probably cut it with a freaking knife. Cas was quiet—real quiet, uncharacteristically so, which could only mean that he was still upset that Dean didn’t want to tell him what was wrong, that he was still mulling it all over, probably trying to find a way to get Dean to talk to him—not that he’d succeed, of course, and he definitely knew that, but that was obviously not enough to stop him from trying. Cas was just stubborn like that.

But no matter how obvious it was that his best friend wanted to resume the conversation they’d been having back at the school parking lot, he didn’t. In fact, Cas didn’t let out a single word until they finally got to his house, and when Dean parked the Impala by the curb, Cas simply sent a long, lingering look over at his friend, before letting out a low, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean.”

Dean gave him a small nod, along with a tiny, tentative smile. “Yeah. See ya, Cas.”

Cas nodded back at him—slowly, carefully—before he finally raised a hand and opened his door, slipping out of the car without another word.

Dean watched him go with a heavy heart, silently cursing himself for making Cas so upset, for having brought up Hannah and started up that trainwreck of a conversation. He really wished that he could make this all go away, that he could just freaking… move on, get over all these _feelings_ that were constantly just _there,_ burning nonstop inside of him, simmering just underneath his skin, more often than not clouding his judgement and making him do some pretty stupid, thoughtless things, but he knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon.

Fuck, why did this have to be so freaking _hard?_

***~*~*~*~***

**Sent: October 1 st, 2019**

**Subject: I’m not sure what to call this one**

**Hey, Jacques,**

**Well, I’m glad to hear that I helped at least a little bit. I do wish I could do more, though, because I still feel like I didn’t really do much here, but I _am_ happy to hear that now you at least know what your next steps are. And you’re totally right—you’ve definitely got some time, so just sit on it, think about it, and figure out what you want. Don’t make any haste decisions. And don't rush yourself. Really, just... take your time with this one, alright?**

**And if you ever need to talk about this again, if you ever feel like you need vent a little more, I’m all ears, okay? Don’t forget that.**

**And how _dare_ you? Dr. Sexy MD doesn’t need a _premise._ It’s all about a sexy doctor in cowboy boots who saves people’s lives in the most incredible situations, and how basically the entire freaking hospital staff is in love with him. Because he’s just too sexy to resist. What more do you want?**

**Seriously, though, you probably didn’t watch it right. That show is a work of freaking _art._ I’m very disappointed in you, mister.**

**Currently judging you,**

**Blue**

***~*~*~*~***

**Received: October 2 nd, 2019**

**From: heyitsJacques**

**Subject: Alright, I’ll give it another chance.**

**Okay, okay, just because you seem very passionate about that show, I _will_ give it another chance, and I promise to try and keep an open mind this time. I just… I don’t know. I didn’t really get it the first time, but I’m committed to try again. Maybe it’ll make more sense the second time around.**

**You know what’s funny, though? I do kinda have a thing for cowboys (sorta. Don’t quote me on that, though, please. It’s kinda hard to explain), so the problem definitely isn’t the cowboy boots. I actually liked them, and I definitely didn’t expect that.**

**I still have one question, though. Does the plot get more… believable over time? Because I’m pretty sure that I watched one of the very early-on episodes, and it just… well, wasn’t.**

**Please don’t judge me too hard,**

**Jacques**

***~*~*~*~***

“You know, I never took you for a coward, Winchester.”

Dean jumped a little, startled. He turned away from his locker, hand frozen in the air where he’d been reaching for a book, only to find none other than Gabriel freaking Speight standing there, just a couple feet away from him, leaning against the lockers beside Dean’s with his arms crossed over his chest and a weird, creepy smirk playing on his lips.

Seriously, couldn't that guy just leave him _alone?_ For _fuck's_ sake.

Dean rolled his eyes at the sight of him, turning back to his locker. “What the hell do you want now, Gabriel?”

“Oh, me? Nothing. _You,_ though, well… Let’s just say that I know _exactly_ what you want.”

Dean frowned, turning his head again and giving Gabriel a questioning look. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Oh, you know—how you want to shove your tongue down Castiel Novak’s throat and all.”

Those words were definitely _not_ what Dean had been expecting to hear, and he was so utterly _shocked_ by them that he actually dropped the book he was holding. It fell to the floor with a low, dry thump, and Dean cursed, hastily bending down to pick it up. He straightened himself back up quickly, then glanced around, heart beating wildly inside his chest as a wave of panic and fear washed over him. No one was standing close enough to them to have heard what Gabriel said, which was good, but Dean couldn’t quite get his stiff, tense muscles to relax.

He glared at Gabriel, but even he could tell that it came out forced, wavering. Fear still coiled in his gut, cold and insistent, almost overwhelming.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he growled.

Gabriel wiggled his eyebrows at Dean, still smirking. “Oh, I think you know. But I’m a good guy, so I won’t do this here. I mean,” He gestured at the hallway around them, where countless students continuously milled around, some of them far too close to Dean’s liking—close enough to hear something that they really weren’t supposed to, “Someone might overhear, and I’m guessing you really don’t want that.” Gabriel leaned a little closer, and his voice was even lower when he added, “Right, Blue?”

Dean’s hand tightened around the book he’d picked up from the floor. He really couldn’t find anything to say—his mind came up completely blank, unable to conjure up any kind of retort—so he just didn’t say anything. Instead, he simply stared at Gabriel with what he knew must be a pair of wide, panicked eyes, his mouth hanging open like a freaking fish.

Gabriel leaned away from the lockers, that conceited, shit-eating smirk still lingering on his lips. “Come over to my house after school, around 4,” he said, stepping even closer to Dean.

Dean felt himself tensing up even more, like he was being cornered by a dangerous, venomous snake.

Gabriel seemed pretty amused by that. He stopped when he was standing right beside Dean, then raised a hand to give him a small pat on the shoulder. “We’ll talk then, lover boy.”

And then he walked off without another word, leaving Dean just standing there, frozen like a freaking statue in front of his locker, still gripping his book in his hand, his knuckles white with the strength he was putting into it. His mind was racing, desperately trying to figure out how the _fuck_ Gabriel knew about all that, how he'd figured it all out, because _fuck,_ he’d been so _careful._ He’d _always_ been _so freaking careful._

He didn’t move again until the five-minute-warning bell rang, and when it did, it startled him, abruptly snapping him out of his trance and making him jump.

He dropped his book again.

***~*~*~*~***

Gabriel lived in a small, bright yellow house about five blocks away from their high school. He’d texted Dean his address sometime after lunch, and Dean had no freaking idea how Gabriel had gotten his freaking phone number, but this really wasn’t the time to be worrying about _that._

No, instead of asking any questions, once the school day was over, Dean simply followed his usual routine—he drove his friends home, then headed to his own house, where he waited until it was close enough to four in the afternoon that he wouldn't show up to Gabriel's house _too_ early.

And now he was here, standing on the Speights’ front porch, hand poised right above the doorbell as he tried to find the courage to press it.

Fuck. How the fuck had this even _happened?_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Dean pulled in a deep, steadying breath and shook his head, cursing lowly to himself. Just standing there, thinking about this, _wondering_ how the _hell_ Gabriel had found out about his emails and his feelings for Cas—or at least about his attraction to him, anyway—wouldn’t actually get him any answers.

Of course, there was one particularly dreadful possibility that Dean just didn’t seem able to ignore, to push away, no matter how hard he tried. It’d first occurred to him this morning, in the middle of math class, and ever since then, ever since the moment that particularly awful, heartbreaking scenario had slipped into his mind, there’d been a weight inside his chest, constantly pressing down against his heart, threatening to suffocate him.

What if… what if Gabriel _was_ Jacques? What if this whole thing was nothing more than one of Speight’s famous, ridiculously elaborate pranks?

The single thought of it was truly _terrifying,_ and when that idea had first crossed his mind, a cold, painful wave of fear had washed over Dean's entire body, powerful and truly overwhelming, so potent that he actually had to excuse himself in the middle of a lecture and run over to the nearest bathroom so he could throw some water on his face and try to calm himself down.

Dean _had_ been trying to figure out who Jacques was, ever since that first reply, when Jacques had told Dean a little bit about himself. And admittedly, Dean definitely didn’t have a lot to go off of, but he still tried. He knew Jacques had been a Game of Thrones fan at some point, that he'd had a Lord of the Rings phase, that he kinda liked Ed Sheeran, that he really loved to write, and that he apparently had a pretty complicated family situation and probably lived with his dad.

And none of that actually got Dean anywhere. Sure, he _could_ try making a list of all the people he knew had been huge Game of Thrones fans back when that had still been a thing, but that definitely wouldn’t do much to help, because that easily included basically _half_ of the school population—maybe even more than that, really. Hell, at some point, that freaking show had basically been all that Dean and his friends talked about, so it definitely wouldn’t help Dean narrow anything down.

Trying to make a list of all the Lord of the Rings fans was even _more_ unhelpful, because Dean had no way to know _who_ used to be a big Lord of the Rings fan at some point—short of, well, asking people about it, which definitely wasn’t a freaking option.

The same went for the Ed Sheeran fans, _and_ the complicated family situation. Dean just… he didn’t know a lot of people at his school well enough to just _know_ those things about them. His circle of friends was pretty much limited to Cas, Jo and Benny—anyone beyond that was either an acquaintance or a stranger, and that meant that Dean still had _no freaking idea_ who Jacques could be.

So, yeah, it was _possible_ that Gabriel could be Jacques—it really was, as much as Dean didn’t want to admit it—but the more he thought it, the more Dean realized that it just didn’t make much sense. Sure, Gabriel _could_ have been behind that post on Lawrence High Secrets, but _anyone_ could have replied to that post, and Dean _had_ made a new, completely impersonal account before sending Jacques that first email. There was just no way that Gabriel could have simply… figured out that Dean was actually Blue. It just couldn’t have been _that_ easy.

But Gabriel had _still_ found out the truth somehow, and Dean had no freaking idea how he’d done it, so he couldn’t rule anything out right now, not until he actually knew the truth.

Keeping that last thought in the forefront of his mind, Dean finally managed to make himself ring the doorbell, and then he just stood there, as tense and stiff as a freaking _tree_ as he waited for something to happen.

The door opened after a few seconds, and then Gabriel was there, standing in the doorway, looking as smug as the damn cat that caught the freaking canary.

“Oh, Dean-o! What a _lovely_ surprise.”

Dean glared at him, gritting his teeth together. “Don’t even start. Let’s just get this over with.”

Gabriel raised his hands in front of his chest in a surrendering, peace-offering gesture. “Fine by me,” he said, stepping aside. “Come on in, then.”

Dean didn’t stop glaring as he stepped forward, walking into the house with stiff shoulders and locked up muscles, like he was expecting some kind of monster to simply jump out of the shadows and attack him at any given moment.

“Gabe, sweetie?” a voice called from deeper in the house, just as Gabriel was done closing the front door again. “Is that your friend from school?”

“Yeah, Mom!” Gabriel called back. “We’ll be in my room, working on that project!” He looked at Dean next, nodding toward the stairs, and when the shorter boy started climbing up the steps that led up to the second floor of the house, Dean followed him without a word.

They’d only climbed up a few steps when that same voice from before echoed through the air again.

“Do you boys want some cookies?”

“No, Mom!” Gabriel replied. “We don’t want any cookies!”

“Well, did you ask _him_ if _he_ wants any cookies?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes, pausing and turning a bit on the stairs so he could look at Dean. He raised his eyebrows. “Do _you_ want any cookies?”

Dean shook his head. Seriously? Did he really need to ask Dean that? _“No.”_

“He says he doesn’t want any!” Gabriel yelled.

“Okay!” his mother replied. “Well, I’ll be down here if you boys need anything!”

Gabriel didn’t even bother to answer that—he just turned back around and resumed climbing up the stairs without another word, so Dean hurried to follow him.

Gabriel’s room was very… well, Gabriel. Truth be told, Dean had been expecting something pretty extravagant and ridiculous, but the scene that greeted him as soon as he walked into the guy’s bedroom still had his eyes widening in surprise, because _wow,_ that was _a lot._

Every single wall of the room was completely covered in posters, ranging from popular features from both Marvel and DC, to TV shows like _The Big Bang Theory_ and _Rick and Morty._ Very little of the actual walls behind the posters was visible, but the limited slivers that could actually be seen displayed a truly unholy array of neon colors—pink, orange, yellow and blue, along with a green ceiling.

Dean tried not to stare directly at any of the walls, afraid to damage his freaking corneas. Seriously, why the hell did Gabriel think it was a good idea to paint each wall of a different _color?_ And not normal shades of said colors, either—bright _neon,_ for fuck’s sake.

Maybe that was why the walls were almost completely covered in posters, Dean reasoned. Maybe Gabriel regretted his bold choice of decoration now and was trying to undo some of the damage those walls were probably doing to his eyesight on a daily basis.

However, as hard as it may be to believe it, the ridiculously colorful, poster-covered walls weren’t the _only_ thing that made Dean pause—no, because there were _several_ other things for him to focus his gaze on inside that room. In fact, there were _too_ many things look at, way too much information for Dean’s brain to process all at once. All available surfaces in sight were _completely_ covered in what Dean could only describe as useless junk, countless trinkets that Gabriel probably planned to use in his pranks. There were _way_ too many top hats, a few rubber chickens—the kind that made those annoying screaming sounds when you squeezed them—some fake flowers, several cans of paint and what looked like body glitter, a blender _,_ a disco ball, and even a freaking _crossbow—_ which was a little alarming, to be perfectly honest.

Dean had no idea what to hell to make of all that, but he definitely wasn’t commenting on any of it. He really didn’t want to know what Gabriel planned to do with all that stuff.

“So, Dean-o,” Gabriel said, picking up a rubber chicken from a nearby desk and letting himself fall onto the chair near the window. He started playing with the chicken, fiddling with it in his hands as he asked, “Nice digs, huh? Worked pretty hard on it.”

“Yeah, nice really wouldn’t be the word _I_ would use,” Dean grumbled.

Gabriel raised his eyebrows at him, an offended look on his face.

But Dean really didn’t have time for this.

“What do you want, Gabriel?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, letting his annoyance bleed freely into both his voice _and_ his face.

Gabriel shrugged, giving Dean a small smile. “What makes you think I want anything?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t have made me come over to your freaking house if you didn’t want something.”

Gabriel raised his hands in what Dean assumed was a peace offering, but he did nod, that damn smile still playing on his lips. “Okay, you got me there,” he admitted. “I do want something. But, well, don’t we all?”

Dean narrowed his eyes, frowning. He wasn’t sure what kind of response Gabriel was expecting from him, but honestly, Dean didn’t really care about that. He really didn’t have the patience to play whatever game Gabriel had going on here. Dean had a few questions that he needed answers to, and he definitely didn’t plan on beating around the bush.

“How did you find out?”

Gabriel shifted his weight in his chair, calmly caressing the rubber chicken’s head, like that was a perfectly normal thing to do. “Well, last Monday, when I was at the library, I saw you leave after talking to Jo, so I used the computer right after you—because, you know, I had some shit to do and all that. And… well, you didn’t even bother closing anything, so you left your email open. And a bunch of boring history stuff, too, but that wasn’t nearly as entertaining as what I found when I started going through your emails.”

Oh, _fuck._ So _that’s_ how he found out.

Well, at least Dean was relieved to find out that Gabriel _wasn’t_ Jacques, because _that_ would have been a pretty awful turn of events.

Briefly, Dean wondered if maybe there had been a way for him to fix this, had he _known_ that was how Gabriel had found out. Maybe he could have tried to convince Gabriel that just because he’d found that email account open on the computer Dean had been using before him, that didn’t mean that _Dean_ was actually _Blue._ Someone could be using that computer _before_ Dean, and when he realized it, Dean simply hadn’t bothered to log out of the person’s email, figuring they’d come back later to do it themselves.

But then Dean remembered that he hadn’t even bothered to close the freaking browser when he got up and left. He’d been so rattled, so affected by what Jo had told him that he’d simply locked the computer and walked away from it, not only leaving his account logged into, but also leaving the tab where he’d been checking his email open along with his research, and _that_ certainly left little to no doubt that Blue’s account actually belonged to Dean. He wouldn’t have left a tab with somebody’s else email open while he worked on his history assignment.

And, well, even if that hadn’t been the case, if Gabriel hadn't made that connection on his own, the way Dean had very obviously panicked this morning when Gabriel had cornered him by his locker was definitely confirmation enough, so really, there was no way Dean could have gotten out of this one so easily.

“But because I’m a pretty cool guy, I logged out of your account for you,” Gabriel continued, “So there’s no need for panic. No one else knows about your secret internet friend.”

That did make Dean feel a little better, he had to admit it, but that didn’t solve all of his problems.

No, because _Gabriel_ still knew.

“Of course,” Gabriel continued, before Dean could say anything, “Before I did that, I took some pictures.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “You took pictures of my emails?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I figured I would _never_ get a chance like that again, so I had to take it. I couldn’t waste that kind of luck. So yeah, I read through your emails and took some pictures. And let me tell you—I found out some pretty interesting things about you, Winchester.”

Dean felt his heart rate spiking, but he did his best to keep his face calm and neutral—or, well, as calm and neutral as he could manage in that moment, at least. He really didn’t want to give Gabriel the satisfaction of knowing just how much those words had affected him, how absolutely _mortified_ he suddenly felt. Those emails had been extremely personal, and no one but Jacques had been supposed to read them. Dean felt awfully exposed, and he _hated_ it.

But he supposed that in the end, this whole thing had been entirely his own damn fault. It had been a pretty stupid decision, checking his email on a school computer. And it had been an even _stupider_ decision not to fucking _log out_ of his email once he was done reading Jacques’ latest reply. He should have been more careful.

“It really is Castiel, isn’t it?”

Dean blinked when Gabriel’s voice suddenly pulled him back from his thoughts. For a moment, Dean’s mind failed to process what exactly Gabriel was asking him, but the meaning behind those words became clear soon enough.

He didn’t respond, of course. Instead, he simply pressed his lips together, a scowl forming on his features.

But apparently, Gabriel took his silence as a cue to keep going.

“The ‘special friend’ that you claim to be in love with. It’s him, isn’t it? I’ve been watching you two more closely these past few days, and I saw you two after theater practice on Monday, having a freaking heart-to-heart right there in the parking lot. The way you look at him, it’s… hell, I don’t even know what to call it. It’s nauseating, to be perfectly frank. Really, I have no idea how no one ever noticed it before. It’s all _right there.”_

Dean swallowed drily, suddenly feeling a lump in his throat. Had he really been so obvious? Had it always been like that, or was that a recent development? Was he getting sloppy with hiding his feelings for Cas? Because if what Gabriel was saying was actually true, then that meant that _someone else_ might have noticed it, if they paid enough attention, if they looked close enough.

And, well, _that_ thought was already enough to make Dean’s blood run cold.

But he definitely didn’t want to talk to Gabriel about this, to inquire more on the matter, to ask him if he really was _that_ obvious. He _refused_ to let Gabriel know just how scared he was, so once again, he did his best to school his features into a calm, emotionless mask.

“What the fuck do you want, Gabriel?” he demanded again, and he was pretty proud of how steady his voice sounded. “I’m guessing I’m not gonna like this, if you felt like you needed take _pictures_ of my emails, just to get me to agree to it.”

Gabriel huffed, shaking his head. “You know, I never understood it—why you’re so… hostile all the time. I just get the feeling that you _really_ don’t like me.”

Dean rolled his eyes, scoffing. He couldn’t be serious, could he? Did he really need to _ask?_

“Sophomore year, gym class. You dyed my damn hair _pink,”_ Dean reminded him. “And then a few months later, you superglued my hand to my fucking _bag._ On my damn _birthday.”_

Gabriel smiled, a faraway look in his eyes, like he was recalling a memory, watching it replay in his head. “Oh, yeah. I forgot about all that.”

Dean raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “You _forgot?”_

Gabriel shrugged. “I mean, that was forever ago. And definitely not my best work, too. I mean, pink hair dye in your shampoo? Superglue on the strap of your bag?” He scoffed. “It makes me sound like such an amateur. I like to think I’ve improved since then.”

Dean rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, not so much. So why the _fuck_ am I here?”

Gabriel raised his hands in front of his body again, “Fine, fine. Geez.” He sighed, lowering his hands back to his lap. “Do you remember what we talked about? Like, three weeks ago?”

It took Dean a beat to remember what exactly Gabriel was referring to, but eventually, a memory finally came back to him, one that he’d pushed to the back of his mind because it just didn’t seem relevant at all to him at the time.

That morning by his locker, when Gabriel had asked him for his help, because he wanted to—

Oh no.

“Are you fucking serious?”

Gabriel shrugged again, another smile spreading onto his lips. Once again, he looked like the cat that caught the freaking canary. “I just want _one_ date, Dean,” He held up a finger as he said it, putting emphasis on the _one._ “Just one date with Jo. You get me that date, and I promise you, I’ll delete all the pictures I took. Actually, I’ll even let _you_ delete them, if that’ll make you feel better.”

Dean’s jaw clenched a couple times, just as his eyes found Gabriel’s laptop resting on the desk near the window. Were the pictures saved on there? Or were they still on his phone? Maybe he’d saved them on both, just to be safe?

“Don’t even think about it,” Gabriel’s voice snapped Dean back to reality. “And it’s not like breaking my stuff would even do any good, anyway. You ever heard of something called a _cloud_ , Winchester?”

Right. Yeah, that definitely complicated things.

“Listen, you don’t need to look like I stepped on your puppy, okay? Really, this isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

Dean failed to hold back an incredulous scoff. “Oh, really? Gabriel, you’re literally _blackmailing_ me.”

“Actually, I’m not—not yet, anyway. I haven’t even told you what I’ll do if you _don’t_ help me, so _technically_ , this doesn’t yet qualify as blackmail.”

Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, it’s not that hard to guess. If I don’t help you, you’ll leak the pictures you took, and then the whole school will find out about me. Did I get it right?”

Gabriel gave him a slow nod, pursing his lips. “Okay, yeah, you got it. But you also forgot about one tiny little detail.”

Dean frowned. “What detail?”

“If everyone at our school sees your emails, it won’t be too hard for them to put the pieces together, just like I did. And that includes your dear friend Castiel Novak.”

Dean’s stomach sunk all the way down to the freaking floor.

And okay, yeah, maybe it had been a little stupid of him not to have realized _that_ tiny little detail before, but could you really blame him? He’d been so focused on the panic caused by the possibility of the _entire_ freaking school finding out about his secret that he hadn’t even _thought_ about what _Cas_ would think.

Fuck. _Fuck._

“And _there_ it is,” Gabriel smiled that same big, conceited smile from before. He looked like he’d just won a freaking prize.

“You enjoy seeing people suffer or something? Are you really that twisted in the head?”

“Oh, no,” Gabriel shook his head quickly, vehemently, his eyes a little wider. “No, I’m not _enjoying_ your panic. Really, I’m not. I just… well, seeing you so afraid lets me know that you’d really do anything to make sure your dirty little secret doesn’t get out, and _that_ is something I can work with.”

Well, didn’t that make Dean feel so much better.

Dean let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. If only he’d been more _careful,_ if he’d just logged out of his freaking email, then he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

“So, what do you say, Dean-o?” Gabriel asked after a pause. “You get me a date with Jo, and I let you delete all those pictures I took. Do we have a deal?”

Dean took a moment to glare at Gabriel, making sure that the other boy understood just how much he hated him right now, how much he hated this _whole_ situation.

But in the end, he let out a big, relenting sigh, because what other choice did he have? He couldn’t _possibly_ let Gabriel post those pictures anywhere. He just couldn’t afford to take that risk.

“Yeah,” he said, voice coming out low and a little hoarse, “We have a _fucking_ deal.”

***~*~*~*~***

Later that night, Dean spent literal _hours_ trying to decide whether or not he should tell Jacques about what happened with Gabriel.

On one hand, Dean really thought Jacques had the right to know. Gabriel had also seen _Jacques’_ emails—he’d even taken _pictures_ of them, the fucking blackmailing asshole—so maybe Dean _should_ let him know that their emails were no longer private. It just felt… wrong, keeping Jacques in the dark about this, pretending that everything was okay. Jacques had shared so much with Dean, had told him about some really personal stuff, and now someone else knew about all that. Someone else knew all the secrets that Jacques had trusted Dean with, that he’d meant for no one else other than _Dean_ to know about. Really, Jacques deserved to know the truth.

But on the _other_ hand, Dean was terrified of what would happen if he told Jacques about Gabriel. What if it scared Jacques away? What if Jacques no longer trusted Dean? What if he was scared that something like that could happen again, and he decided that maybe talking to Dean just wasn’t worth the risk? What if Dean never heard from Jacques again?

He didn’t understand why that thought bothered him so much, why it actually _scared_ him, but it did. Talking to Jacques was just so… _easy,_ in a way Dean hadn’t experienced with anyone in _years—_ not ever since he’d figured out who he was, and especially not after he realized his feelings for Cas. He didn’t want to lose that—to lose his new friend, the one person he could actually open up to, that he could truly be himself with. He still had hope that maybe someday they might actually be comfortable enough to tell each other who they were, that they could become _friends._

But that definitely wouldn’t happened if Dean screwed it all up now.

Also, even if he wanted to open up about what happened today, Dean couldn’t tell Jacques about Gabriel _specifically—_ not with what Dean would need to do to fix this whole situation. That could potentially lead to Jacques figuring out who Dean was, and he just couldn’t take that risk—at least not now, not yet. It just wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

So even if he _wanted_ to tell Jacques the truth, he couldn’t tell him the _whole_ truth, and what was the point of that? Worrying the guy about someone knowing his deepest, darkest secrets, but refusing to tell him who _exactly_ knew them? That just didn’t seem fair, and honestly, it might actually do more harm than good. Jacques would definitely not trust him again after something like that.

So in the end, Dean decided against telling Jacques about Gabriel altogether. He decided it might be best to just… keep talking to Jacques normally, to pretend everything was okay. He just had to make sure that this whole thing with Gabriel wouldn’t escalate, and not just for Jacques’ sake—for his own, too. If Gabriel ever decided to post those emails anywhere, Jacques’ personal life wouldn’t be the _only_ thing that would come to light, and Dean would suddenly have an even bigger problem on his hands. He’d have _a lot_ more to worry about than his new internet friend no longer wanting anything to do with him.

But Dean was determined _not_ to let that happen. He was the very opposite of happy about what he would need to do in order to stop that from happening, but it wasn’t like he had a freaking _choice._

He just hoped Jo would forgive him for it someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Dean has to do some pretty unpleasant, questionable things in order to keep his secrets safe. He makes a very painful discovery, and a very brave decision.


End file.
